Explore "Theoretikos" by Oscar Wilde on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.