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.