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. Les Ballons
2. On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria
3. Fabien Dei Franchi
4. Tristitiae
5. San Miniato

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