Poem by Oscar Wilde

Theoretikos

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
    Of all its ancient chivalry and might
    Our little island is forsake 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.

1. The Garden of Eros
2. Hélas!
3. Portia
4. Fabien Dei Franchi
5. Impression Du Matin

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