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