She in the hurling night
With lucid simple hands,
Stroked away his fright
Loosed his blood-soaked bands.

And seriously aware
Of the terror she caressed,
Drew his matted hair
Gladly to her breast.

And he who babbled Death
Shivered and grew still
In the meadows of her breath,
Restoring his dark will.

Nor did she ever stir
In the storm's calm centre
To feel the tail, hooves, fur
Of the god-faced centaur.