 | Collected poems of Henry Thoreau |  |
389
THE CENTAUR
Alas, when will this roving head & breastBe welded to that firm & brawny beast?
The sun may set the silver moon may rise
But my unresting steed holds on his way
He is far gone ere this, then, you would say.
He is far going.
The eagle sailing high with outspread wings
cleaving the silent air, Resteth him not
An instant in his flight, the air is not his perch
No more my steed slackening his onward pace
Dismounts his rider by the tedious way
my bark neer furls its weatherbeaten sails
And rest[s] its keel upon a friendly shore—
But still it plows the shoreless seas of time—
Breasting the waves with an unsanded prow
| Collected poems of Henry Thoreau | |