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.