It doth not flame and wane
            With years and spheres that roll,
        Storm cannot shake nor stain
            The strength that makes it whole,
The fire that moulds and moves it of the sovereign soul.

        We are they that have to cope
            With time till time retire;
        We live on hopeless hope,
            We feed on tears and fire;
Time, foot by foot, gives back before our sheer desire.

        From the edge of harsh derision,
            From discord and defeat,
        From doubt and lame division,
            We pluck the fruit and eat;
And the mouth finds it bitter, and the spirit sweet.

        We strive with time at wrestling
            Till time be on our side
        And hope, our plumeless nestling,
            A full-fledged eaglet ride
Down the loud length of storm its windward wings divide.

        We are girt with our belief,
            Clothed with our will and crowned;
        Hope, fear, delight, and grief,
            Before our will give ground;
Their calls are in our ears as shadows of dead sound.

        All but the heart forsakes us,
            All fails us but the will;
        Keen treason tracks and takes us
            In pits for blood to fill;
Friend falls from friend, and faith for faith lays wait to kill.

        Out under moon and stars
            And shafts of the urgent sun
        Whose face on prison-bars
            And mountain-heads is one,
Our march is everlasting till time’s march be done.

        Whither we know, and whence,
            And dare not care wherethrough.
        Desires that urge the sense,
            Fears changing old with new,
Perils and pains beset the ways we press into;

        Earth gives us thorns to tread,
            And all her thorns are trod;
        Through lands burnt black and red
            We pass with feet unshod;
Whence we would be man shall not keep us, nor man’s God.

        Through the great desert beasts
            Howl at our backs by night,
        And thunder-forging priests
            Blow their dead bale-fires bright,
And on their broken anvils beat out bolts for fight.

        Inside their sacred smithies
            Though hot the hammer rings,
        Their steel links snap like withies,
            Their chains like twisted strings,
Their surest fetters are as plighted words of kings.

        O nations undivided,
            O single people and free,
        We dreamers, we derided,
            We mad blind men that see,
We bear you witness ere ye come that ye shall be.

        Ye sitting among tombs,
            Ye standing round the gate,
        Whom fire-mouthed war consumes,
            Or cold-lipped peace bids wait,
All tombs and bars shall open, every grave and grate.

        The locks shall burst in sunder,
            The hinges shrieking spin,
        When time, whose hand is thunder,
            Lays hand upon the pin,
And shoots the bolts reluctant, bidding all men in.

        These eyeless times and earless,
            Shall these not see and hear,
        And all their hearts burn fearless
            That were afrost for fear?
Is day not hard upon us, yea, not our day near?

        France! from its grey dejection
            Make manifest the red
        Tempestuous resurrection
            Of thy most sacred head!
Break thou the covering cerecloths; rise up from the dead.

        And thou, whom sea-walls sever
            From lands unwalled with seas,
        Wilt thou endure for ever,
            O Milton’s England, these?
Thou that wast his Republic, wilt thou clasp their knees?

        These royalties rust-eaten,
            These worm-corroded lies,
        That keep thine head storm-beaten
            And sunlike strength of eyes
From the open heaven and air of intercepted skies;

        These princelings with gauze winglets
            That buzz in the air unfurled,
        These summer-swarming kinglets,
            These thin worms crowned and curled,
That bask and blink and warm themselves about the world;

        These fanged meridian vermin,
            Shrill gnats that crowd the dusk,
        Night-moths whose nestling ermine
            Smells foul of mould and musk,
Blind flesh-flies hatched by dark and hampered in their husk;

        These honours without honour,
            These ghost-like gods of gold,
        This earth that wears upon her
            To keep her heart from cold
No memory more of men that brought it fire of old;

        These limbs, supine, unbuckled,
            In rottenness of rest,
        These sleepy lips blood-suckled
            And satiate of thy breast,
These dull wide mouths that drain thee dry and call thee blest;

        These masters of thee mindless
            That wear thee out of mind,
        These children of thee kindless
            That use thee out of kind,
Whose hands strew gold before thee and contempt behind;

        Who have turned thy name to laughter,
            Thy sea-like sounded name
        That now none hearkens after
            For faith in its free fame,
Who have robbed thee of thy trust and given thee of their shame;

        These hours that mock each other,
            These years that kill and die,
        Are these thy gains, our mother,
            For all thy gains thrown by?
Is this that end whose promise made thine heart so high?

        With empire and with treason
            The first right hand made fast,
        But in man’s nobler season
            To put forth help the last,
Love turns from thee, and memory disavows thy past.

        Lest thine own sea disclaim thee,
            Lest thine own sons despise,
        Lest lips shoot out that name thee
            And seeing thee men shut eyes,
Take thought with all thy people, turn thine head and rise.

        Turn thee, lift up thy face;
            What ails thee to be dead?
        Ask of thyself for grace,
            Seek of thyself for bread,
And who shall starve or shame thee, blind or bruise thine head?

        The same sun in thy sight,
            The same sea in thine ears,
        That saw thine hour at height,
            That sang thy song of years,
Behold and hearken for thee, knowing thy hopes and fears.

        O people, O perfect nation,
            O England that shall be,
        How long till thou take station?
            How long till thralls live free?
How long till all thy soul be one with all thy sea?

        Ye that from south to north,
            Ye that from east to west,
        Stretch hands of longing forth
            And keep your eyes from rest,
Lo, when ye will, we bring you gifts of what is best.

        From the awful northland pines
            That skirt their wan dim seas
        To the ardent Apennines
            And sun-struck Pyrenees,
One frost on all their frondage bites the blossoming trees.

        The leaves look up for light,
            For heat of helpful air;
        The trees of oldest height
            And thin storm-shaken hair
Seek with gaunt hands up heavenward if the sun be there.

        The woods where souls walk lonely,
            The forests girt with night,
        Desire the day-star only
            And firstlings of the light
Not seen of slaves nor shining in their masters’ sight.

        We have the morning star,
            O foolish people, O kings!
        With us the day-springs are,
            Even all the fresh day-springs;
For us, and with us, all the multitudes of things.

        O sorrowing hearts of slaves,
            We heard you beat from far!
        We bring the light that saves,
            We bring the morning star;
Freedom’s good things we bring you, whence all good things are.

        With us the winds and fountains
            And lightnings live in tune;
        The morning-coloured mountains
            That burn into the noon,
The mist’s mild veil on valleys muffled from the moon:

        The thunder-darkened highlands
            And lowlands hot with fruit,
        Sea-bays and shoals and islands,
            And cliffs that foil man’s foot,
And all the flower of large-limbed life and all the root:

        The clangour of sea-eagles
            That teach the morning mirth
        With baying of heaven’s beagles
            That seek their prey on earth,
By sounding strait and channel, gulf and reach and firth.

        With us the fields and rivers,
            The grass that summer thrills,
        The haze where morning quivers,
            The peace at heart of hills,
The sense that kindles nature, and the soul that fills.

        With us all natural sights,
            All notes of natural scale;
        With us the starry lights;
            With us the nightingale;
With us the heart and secret of the worldly tale.

        The strife of things and beauty,
            The fire and light adored,
        Truth, and life-lightening duty,
            Love without crown or sword,
That by his might and godhead makes man god and lord.

        These have we, these are ours,
            That no priests give nor kings;
        The honey of all these flowers,
            The heart of all these springs;
Ours, for where freedom lives not, there live no good things.

        Rise, ere the dawn be risen;
            Come, and be all souls fed;
        From field and street and prison
            Come, for the feast is spread;
Live, for the truth is living; wake, for night is dead.