Theoretikos
This mighty1 empire hath but feet of clay：
Of all its ancient chivalry2 and might
Our little island is forsaken3 quite：
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay，
And from its hills that voice hath passed away
Which spake of Freedom： O come out of it，
Come out of it， my Soul， thou art not fit
For this vile4 traffic-house， where day by day
Wisdom and reverence5 are sold at mart，
And the rude people rage with ignorant cries
Against an heritage of centuries.
It mars my calm： wherefore in dreams of Art
And loftiest culture I would stand apart，
Neither for God， nor for his enemies.
