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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=473227" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ave Imperatrix</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SET in this stormy Northern sea,<br> Queen of these restless fields of tide,<br> England! what shall men say of thee,<br> Before whose feet the worlds divide?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The earth, a brittle globe of glass,<br> Lies in the hollow of thy hand,<br> And through its heart of crystal pass,<br> Like shadows through a twilight land,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The spears of crimson-suited war,<br> The long white-crested waves of fight, <br> And all the deadly fires which are<br> The torches of the lords of Night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The yellow leopards, strained and lean,<br> The treacherous Russian knows so well,<br> With gaping blackened jaws are seen<br> Leap through the hail of screaming shell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The strong sea-lion of England's wars<br> Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,<br> To battle with the storm that mars<br> The star of England's chivalry.  </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The brazen-throated clarion blows<br> Across the Pathan's reedy fen,<br> And the high steeps of Indian snows<br> Shake to the tread of armèd men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And many an Afghan chief, who lies<br> Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,<br> Clutches his sword in fierce surmise<br> When on the mountain-side he sees</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes<br> To tell how he hath heard afar  <br> The measured roll of English drums<br> Beat at the gates of Kandahar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> For southern wind and east wind meet<br> Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,<br> England with bare and bloody feet<br> Climbs the steep road of wide empire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O lonely Himalayan height,<br> Grey pillar of the Indian sky,<br> Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight<br> Our wingèd dogs of Victory?  </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The almond groves of Samarcand,<br> Bokhara, where red lilies blow,<br> And Oxus, by whose yellow sand<br> The grave white-turbaned merchants go:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And on from thence to Ispahan,<br> The gilded garden of the sun,<br> Whence the long dusty caravan<br> Brings cedar and vermilion;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And that dread city of Cabool<br> Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet,  <br> Whose marble tanks are ever full<br> With water for the noonday heat:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Where through the narrow straight Bazaar<br> A little maid Circassian<br> Is led, a present from the Czar<br> Unto some old and bearded khan,--</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Here have our wild war-eagles flown,<br> And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;<br> But the sad dove, that sits alone<br> In England--she hath no delight.  </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In vain the laughing girl will lean<br> To greet her love with love-lit eyes:<br> Down in some treacherous black ravine,<br> Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And many a moon and sun will see<br> The lingering wistful children wait<br> To climb upon their father's knee;<br> And in each house made desolate</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Pale women who have lost their lord<br> Will kiss the relics of the slain--  <br> Some tarnished epaulette--some sword--<br> Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> For not in quiet English fields<br> Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,<br> Where we might deck their broken shields<br> With all the flowers the dead love best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> For some are by the Delhi walls,<br> And many in the Afghan land,<br> And many where the Ganges falls<br> Through seven mouths of shifting sand.  </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And some in Russian waters lie,<br> And others in the seas which are<br> The portals to the East, or by<br> The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O wandering graves! O restless sleep!<br> O silence of the sunless day!<br> O still ravine! O stormy deep!<br> Give up your prey! Give up your prey!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And thou whose wounds are never healed,<br> Whose weary race is never won,  <br> O Cromwell's England! must thou yield<br> For every inch of ground a son?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,<br> Change thy glad song to song of pain;<br> Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,<br> And will not yield them back again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Wave and wild wind and foreign shore<br> Possess the flower of English land--<br> Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,<br> Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What profit now that we have bound<br> The whole round world with nets of gold,<br> If hidden in our heart is found<br> The care that groweth never old?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> What profit that our galleys ride,<br> Pine-forest-like, on every main?<br> Ruin and wreck are at our side,<br> Grim warders of the House of pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?<br> Where is our English chivalry?<br> Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,<br> And sobbing waves their threnody.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O loved ones lying far away,<br> What word of love can dead lips send!<br> O wasted dust! O senseless clay!<br> Is this the end! is this the end!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead<br> To vex their solemn slumber so;<br> Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,<br> Up the steep road must England go, </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yet when this fiery web is spun,<br> Her watchmen shall descry from far<br> The young Republic like a sun<br> Rise from these crimson seas of war.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oscar+Wilde">Oscar Wilde</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=473227" data-title="Ave Imperatrix de Oscar Wilde" data-description="SET in this stormy Northern sea,
 Queen of these restless fields of tide,
 England! what shall men say of thee,
 Before whose feet the worlds divide?

 The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
 Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
 And through its heart of..."></div>
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