To Ada.
So must the sinewy Centaur snort and rear,
As some sweet maiden-mare trots wickedly
Across his pagan path, burning his very heart;
Flicking the flies from off her heaving flanks,
The amorous flies who fill their lips with blood;
And while his life-blood riots in his hocks,
She spreads her cunning heels and whisks her tail;
Then kicks the bitter sand into his eyes,
Still gazing smarting on the supple form—