Theoretikos

Oscar Wilde

          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              10
          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.

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