The Invocation Of Jealousy

The conquered world is bowed and worshipful,
And lovely Peace smooth-gowned in lightest grey
Cries, "War is Dead' and treads upon it's skull.
  While silken women walk their rosy way
Sneering at swords, and tittering at deeds,
And kicking relics with their pearl-shod feet,
Saying with mirth, "The body never bleeds.
Old Mars is corpsed beneath great Bacchus'
seat."
Young Mothers tell their babies of rusted spears
Of timid wolves, long fled to northern skies,
Of priests that sang of March in olden years,
And died in May with vain, despairing eyes,
The world is soothed with olive-juice and wine,
And spits upon the Quirinalian* shrine.