Theoretikos

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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.

© Oscar Wilde