And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
There's no glory like those who save their country.
This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.