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The dance of the Centaurs
Hoofs in the air and mouths without a rein,
Bare-chested, waving lances in their play,
Shouting in beauty, dancing down the way,
With shoulders white they mock the noonday vain.
Night hears them coming. Hark! the woods complain
Unto the moon! The maiden centaurs stay—
Retreat—advance—their myriad bosoms sway—
Their tresses stream behind their dashing train.
Soon moonlight whitens, night to mourn would yield;
Ceases the hippic dance; through thundering space
The centaurs are in maddened rout revealed:
Lo!—far away, out where the moonlight dies
Titanic, fiery-eyed with Argive mace,
Great Hercules rears up against the skies.
Francisca Julia