Back

THE CENTAUR

Far from the olive-mantled slopes,

And ancient goat-trod hills,

I used to live where Pan resides,

Where naiads harked to the thrill-

Of a lyre plucked by Apollo

In the noon of gods’ delight;

And dryads wept for trees’ decline

In the salt-breathed summer night.

Far from the hazed cicadas

Of Arcadia I roam;

Green the grove of eternity;

The place I now call home.

Once I thundered through the war

In battles ‘cross the land,

An archer of renown was I,

With my bacchanalian band-

Of mighty horse-loined brethren

So perverse a breed were we;

That maidens wept with terror

Of our fearsome mystery.

Far from the olive clusters

Of Arcadia I dwell;

Soft, the grove of eternity-

The place I know so well.

Once my hoofs were shod with iron,

And heroes spoke my name,

In lowered tones or vengeful voice;

My path was marked by shame;

A company of sybarites

Dionysus’s train-

We relished our duality-

Horse brawn and human brain.

Far from the scarlet days of war-

Of ancient days gone by

Hushed, the grove of eternity

In silence now am I.

Do wakeful men remember me

In dreams of clashing shields?

Do maidens weep in dreams and sigh

As constellations wheel?

Must I recall unfettered fame

And old iniquities?

Or has my image faded now

To blurred antiquity?

Far from Hephaestus’ smithy-

In green and pleasant glades,

Now the groves of stillness

Form the place I live my days.

Far from the hazed cicadas

Of Arcadia I dwell

Hushed, the grove of eternity-

And oh, I love it well.