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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339839" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bellona</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou art moulded in marble impassive,<br>False goddess, fair statue of strife,<br>Yet standest on pedestal massive,<br>A symbol and token of life.<br>Thou art still, not with stillness of languor,<br>And calm, not with calm boding rest;<br>For thine is all wrath and all anger<br>That throbs far and near in the breast<br>Of man, by thy presence possess'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With the brow of a fallen archangel,<br>The lips of a beautiful fiend,<br>And locks that are snake-like to strangle,<br>And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd<br>The presence of passions, that tremble<br>Unbidden, yet shine as they may<br>Through features too proud to dissemble,<br>Too cold and too calm to betray<br>Their secrets to creatures of clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy breath stirreth faction and party,<br>Men rise, and no voice can avail<br>To stay them — rose-tinted Astarte<br>Herself at thy presence turns pale.<br>For deeper and richer the crimson<br>That gathers behind thee throws forth<br>A halo thy raiment and limbs on,<br>And leaves a red track in the path<br>That flows from thy wine-press of wrath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For behind thee red rivulets trickle,<br>Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe,<br>As corn falleth down to the sickle,<br>As grass falleth down to the scythe,<br>Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely,<br>Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance,<br>And rapine and ruin and rape lie<br>Around thee. The Furies advance,<br>And Ares awakes from his trance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We, too, with our bodies thus weakly,<br>With hearts hard and dangerous, thus<br>We owe thee — the saints suffered meekly<br>Their wrongs — it is not so with us.<br>Some share of thy strength thou hast given<br> <br>To mortals refusing in vain<br>Thine aid. We have suffered and striven<br>Till we have grown reckless of pain,<br>Though feeble of heart and of brain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fair spirit, alluring if wicked,<br>False deity, terribly real,<br>Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked<br>By thee and thy hollow ideal.<br>The soldier who falls in his harness,<br>And strikes his last stroke with slack hand,<br>On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is<br>Imprinted. Oh! seeks he a land<br>Where he shall escape thy command?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the blood of thy victims lies red on<br>That stricken field, fiercest and last,<br>In the sunset that gilds Armageddon<br>With battle-drift still overcast —<br>When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations<br>O'ershadows the earth as with wings,<br>Where nations have fought against nations,<br>And kings have encounter'd with kings,<br>When cometh the end of all things —</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then those who have patiently waited,<br>And borne, unresisting, the pain<br>Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated,<br>Shall they be rewarded again?<br>Then those who, enticed by thy laurels,<br>Or urged by thy promptings unblest,<br>Have striven and stricken in quarrels,<br>Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?<br>We know not, yet hope for the best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339839" data-title="Bellona de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="Thou art moulded in marble impassive,
False goddess, fair statue of strife,
Yet standest on pedestal massive,
A symbol and token of life.
Thou art still, not with stillness of languor,
And calm, not with calm boding rest;
For thine is all wrath an..."></div>
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