To Milton

Milton！ I think thy spirit hath passed away

　　From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers；

　　This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours

　　Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey，

　　And the age changed unto a mimic¹ play

　　Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours：

　　For all our pomp and pageantry and powers

　　We are but fit to delve² the common clay，

　　Seeing this little isle³ on which we stand，

　　This England， this sea-lion of the sea，

　　By ignorant demagogues is held in fee，

　　Who love her not： Dear God！ is this the land

　　Which bare a triple empire in her hand

　　When Cromwell spake the word Democracy！

Oscar Wilde