EUROPE—1914
| Since Athens died, the life that is a light Has never shone in Europe. Alien moods, The oriental morbid sanctitudes, Have darkened on her like the fear of night. In happy augury we dared to guess That her pure spirit shot one sunny glance Of paganry across the fields of France, Clear startling this dim fog of soulfulness. But now, with arms and carnage and the cries Of Holy Murder, rolling to the clouds Her bloody-shadowed smoke of sacrifice, The Superstition conquers, and the shrouds Of sick black wonder lay their murky blight Where shone of old the immortal-seeming light. |
ISADORA DUNCAN
| You bring the fire and terror of the wars Of infidels in thunder-running hordes, With spears like sun-rays, shields, and wheeling swords Flame shape, death shape and shaped like scimitars, With crimson eagles and blue pennantry, And teeth and armor flashing, and white eyes Of battle horses, and the silver cries Of trumpets unto storm and victory! Who is this naked-footed lovely girl Of summer meadows dancing on the grass? So young and tenderly her footsteps pass, So dreamy-limbed and lightly wild and warm— The bugles murmur and the banners furl, And they are lost and vanished like a storm! |