Lay you the cakes beside, for the three-mouthed dog of Hell; Death-
Slain on the grass in fight, surely his end is well. Chant of The Centaurs
Love was the wind he sought, ignorant whence it went;
Now he has clasped it close, silent and eloquent;
Slow as the stream and strong, answering knee to knee,
Carry this clay along—it is more wise than we.
The chanting died away upon the hills,
Sobbingly low.
And Night reversed the urn; Night
Drawing all sunlight back to the hot deeps,