Ix

Greater far than shaft or storied fane, Than bronze and marble blent, Greater than all the honors he could gain From a nation's high intent, He sleeps alone, in his great isle, unknown, With the chalk-cliffs all around him for his mighty grave-yard stone, And the league-long sounding roar Of old ocean, forevermore Beating, beating, about his rest, For fane and monument.

The World-Mother