Adrienne Rich — The Uncle Speaks in the Drawing Room

I have seen the mob of late Standing sullen in the square, Gazing with a sullen stare At window, balcony and gate. Some have talked in bitter tones, Some have held and fingered stones. These are follies that subside. Let us consider, none the less, Certain frailties of glass Which, it cannot be denied, Lead in times like these to fear For crystal vase and chandelier. Not that the missiles will be cast; None as yet dare lift an arm. But the scene recalls a storm When our grandsire stood aghast To see his antique ruby bowl Shivered in a thunder-roll. Let us only bear in mind How these treasures handed down From a calmer age passed on Are in the keeping of our kind. We stand between the dead glass-blowers And murmurings of missile throwers.