MANY GODS



The surf of his strong words, and still
Against the wild trees on the Hill
His cottage sheltered under,
I see the toss of his gray locks,
Like Lear's - for he had felt the sting
Of all too greatly giving
The kingdom of his mind to those
Who for it held him mad.


O England, guard thy living
Like him from a like fateI
For not the mighty thunder
Of thy proud name from all the rocks
Of all the world can compensate
A nation whom no Song makes glad,
And whom no Seer makes great.



THE END



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