The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; With sounding hooves across the earth I fly, A steed Thessalian with a human face. Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase The leaves, half dead already with affright; I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race Of mortals bring no comfort or delight.
[He looks up from his reading and points to the sign on his shirt.]
private
D --> One moment
[Equius switches from text to video.]
It's by a human poet who was quite famous.
Eleven November, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace;
With sounding hooves across the earth I fly,
A steed Thessalian with a human face.
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
The leaves, half dead already with affright;
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
Of mortals bring no comfort or delight.
[He looks up from his reading and points to the sign on his shirt.]
See, it's about Sagittarius, and that's us.