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.