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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343758" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Bombardment</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It stops a moment<br>on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling<br>over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle,<br>and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square.<br>Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky?<br>Boom! The sound swings against the rain. Boom, again! After it, only water<br>rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle.<br>Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about from the firelight.<br>The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies<br>leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'. Her hands are restless,<br>but the white masses of her hair are quite still. Boom! Will it never cease<br>to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass<br>on the `etagere'. It lies there, formless and glowing,<br>with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red,<br>blood-red. A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks.<br>The old lady speaks: 'Victor, clear away that broken glass.' 'Alas!<br>Madame, the bohemian glass!' 'Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago<br>my father brought it -' Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes.<br>Another goblet shivers and breaks. Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut<br>within its clash and murmur. Inside is his candle, his table, his ink,<br>his pen, and his dreams. He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with<br>beams of sunshine, slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself<br>up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see<br>copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A wind-harp in a cedar-tree<br>grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent,<br>shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher. Boom!<br>The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems. The fountain rears up<br>in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom!<br>And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain.<br>Again, Boom! - Boom! - Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears.<br>He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. Boom! It is night,<br>and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. What has made<br>the bed shake? 'Mother, where are you? I am awake.' 'Hush, my Darling,<br>I am here.' 'But, Mother, something so queer happened, the room shook.'<br>Boom! 'Oh! What is it? What is the matter?' Boom! 'Where is Father?<br>I am so afraid.' Boom! The child sobs and shrieks. The house<br>trembles and creaks. Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered. All his trials<br>oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent,<br>goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory,<br>that is his story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes.<br>Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime.<br>Wails from people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see<br>the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof,<br>and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire,<br>behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings,<br>squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round<br>the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night<br>and hisses against the rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white,<br>wet night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.<br>Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer there.<br>Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains.<br>The old lady cannot walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts.<br>Boom! - Boom! - Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver.<br>But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The city burns.<br>Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames.<br>Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky,<br>the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles<br>along the floors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower<br>flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along<br>the ceiling beams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at<br>the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people.<br>They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars. They shout and call,<br>and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city.<br>Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people. Boom! Boom, again!<br>The water rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling
over his stone cloak. It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle,
and falls from it in turmo..."></div>
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