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…
Added by Patricia Louise Hughes on December 18, 2014 at 10:30am — 1 Comment
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