Theoretikos

　　This mighty empire hath but feet of clay：

　　Of all its ancient chivalry and might

　　Our little island is forsaken 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 vile traffic-house， where day by day

　　Wisdom and reverence 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.