On a Picture of a Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac by W.B. Yeats Your hooves have stamped at the black margins of the wood, Even where horrible green parrots call and swing. My works are all stamped down in 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 gre…