Xx

Man, little man, whose sun hath not declined, Pale man with spirit written on his face, Punched out of clay, and pitched on some mean place, A breath of being battling with the wind, A prisoner on Time’s floating isle confined, Yet in himself encompassing all space, While with the regal gesture of his race He sweeps Eternity into his mind! The Spirit! The Encompasser! O thou, England my country, could I but behold The steadiness of spirit on thy brow, Could’st thou encompass spirit, I should hold Thee master of the Future as the Past, The immortal, perfect nation--and the last.

HESEPE, 21st July