Theoretikos

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:Of all its ancient chivalry and mightOur little island is forsaken quite:Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,And from its hills that voice hath passed awayWhich spake of Freedom: O come out of it,Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fitFor this vile traffic-house, where day by dayWisdom and reverence are sold at mart,And the rude people rage with ignorant criesAgainst an heritage of centuries.It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of ArtAnd loftiest culture I would stand apart,Neither for God, nor for his enemies.