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Oscar Wilde - Theoretikos
Work rating: Medium

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.
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