I

    Blessed be this place，

    More blessed still this tower；

    A bloody¹， arrogant² power

    Rose out of the race

    Uttering， mastering it，

    Rose like these walls from these

    Storm-beaten cottages—

    In mockery I have set

    A powerful emblem³ up，

    And sing it rhyme upon rhyme

    In mockery of a time

    Half dead at the top.

    II

    Alexandria‘s was a beacon⁴ tower， and Babylon’s

    An image of the moving heavens， a log-book of the sun‘s journey and the moon’s；

    And Shelley had his towers， thought‘s crowned powers he called them once.

    I declare this tower is my symbol； I declare

    This winding⁵， gyring， spiring⁶ treadmill⁷ of a stair is my ancestral stair；

    That Goldsmith and the Dean， Berkeley and Burke have travelled there.

    Swift beating on his breast in sibylline⁸ frenzy⁹ blind

    Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had dragged him down into mankind，

    Goldsmith deliberately¹⁰ sipping¹¹ at the honey-pot of his mind，

    And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a tree，

    That this unconquerable labyrinth¹² of the birds， century after century，

    Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality；

    And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a dream，

    That this pragmatical， preposterous¹³ pig of a world， its farrow that so solid seem，

    Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its theme；

    Saeva Indignatio and the labourer‘s hire，

    The strength that gives our blood and state magnanimity of its own desire；

    Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual fire.

    III

    The purity of the unclouded moon

    Has flung its arrowy shaft¹⁴ upon the floor.

    Seven centuries have passed and it is pure，

    The blood of innocence¹⁵ has left no stain.

    There， on blood-saturated ground， have stood

    Soldier， assassin， executioner，

    Whether for daily pittance¹⁶ or in blind fear

    Or out of abstract hatred¹⁷， and shed blood，

    But could not cast a single jet thereon.

    Odour of blood on the ancestral stair！

    And we that have shed none must gather there

    And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

    IV

    Upon the dusty， glittering windows cling，

    And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies，

    Tortoiseshell butterflies， peacock butterflies，

    A couple of night-moths are on the wing.

    Is every modern nation like the tower，

    Half dead at the top？ No matter what I said，

    For wisdom is the property of the dead，

    A something incompatible¹⁸ with life； and power，

    Like everything that has the stain of blood，

    A property of the living； but no stain

    Can come upon the visage of the moon

    When it has looked in glory from a cloud.

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