Compassion

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.