The Tower — On a Picture of a Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac
| Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, |
| Even where horrible green parrots call
and swing. |
| My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud. |
| I knew that horse-play, knew it for a
murderous thing. |
| What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat, |
| And that alone; yet I,
being driven half insane |
| Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat |
| In the mad abstract
dark and ground it grain by grain |
| And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now |
| I bring full-flavoured wine
out of a barrel found |
| Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew |
| When Alexander’s empire
passed, they slept so sound. |
| Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep; |
| I have loved you
better than my soul for all my words, |
| And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep |
| Unwearied eyes
upon those horrible green birds. |