The Writings of Oscar Wilde/Volume 1/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.