Classic Poem

Of old, through torrents, valleys, woods, and rocks,
The far-famed troop of myriad Centaurs strayed;
Upon their sides the sun with shadows played;
Their dark hair mingled with our flaxen locks.

Choked are the caves, and summer's grass but mocks,
For lonely now we press its springing blade;
And times there are when in the night's warm shade
The stallion's distant cry my bosom shocks.

For the great sons to whom the Cloud gave birth,
Diminishing day by day upon the earth,
Forsake us and fair woman madly try.

Such passion brings us to the brute's base fare,
For it wrings from us only neighing cry,
While they in us desire but the mare.