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She creaks on stiff bones, The image of old Europe bleeds. People driven from their homes, By some windblown seeds, That now become rooted weeds. The emptiness of a faith forgot As traditions die and rot. Yet still she can spring, Like Athena from Zeus' brow Then a new age shall begin, Deaf to what bloodless lords allow, Mother Europa comes not with a plough, But she strides in shining splendour, Dressed and armed for war.
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