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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373706" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Stoic: For Laura Von Courten</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">All winter long you listened for the boom <br>Of distant cannon wheeled into their place. <br>Sometimes outside beneath a bombers’ moon <br>You stood alone to watch the searchlights trace </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Their careful webs against the boding sky, <br>While miles away on Munich’s vacant square <br>The bombs lunged down with an unruly cry <br>Whose blast you saw yet could but faintly hear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And might have turned your eyes upon the gleam <br>Of a thousand years of snow, where near the clouds <br>The Alps ride massive to their full extreme, <br>And season after season glacier crowds </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The dark, persistent smudge of conifers. <br>Or seen beyond the hedge and through the trees <br>The shadowy forms of cattle on the furze, <br>Their dim coats white with mist against the freeze. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Or thought instead of other times than these, <br>Of other countries and of other sights: <br>Eternal Venice sinking by degrees <br>Into the very water that she lights; </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Reflected in canals, the lucid dome <br>Of Maria della Salute at your feet, <br>Her triple spires disfigured by the foam. <br>Remembered in Berlin the parks, the neat </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Footpaths and lawns, the clean spring foliage, <br>Where just short weeks before, a bomb, unaimed, <br>Released a frightened lion from its cage, <br>Which in the mottled dark that trees enflamed </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Killed one who hurried homeward from the raid. <br>And by yourself there standing in the chill <br>You must, with so much known, have been afraid <br>And chosen such a mind of constant will, </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Which, though all time corrode with constant hurt, <br>Remains, until it occupies no space, <br>That which it is; and passionless, inert, <br>Becomes at last no meaning and no place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edgar+Bowers">Edgar Bowers</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=373706" data-title="The Stoic: For Laura Von Courten de Edgar Bowers" data-description="All winter long you listened for the boom 
Of distant cannon wheeled into their place. 
Sometimes outside beneath a bombers’ moon 
You stood alone to watch the searchlights trace 


Their careful webs against the boding sky, 
While miles away on..."></div>
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