To some rich haven where the poets throng
And Ruler of Ten Cities wrought in song
And spired with rhythmic music, high and clear,
Still finds his England something close and dear,
Rejoicing when her justice baffles wrong
And willing her to wrestle and be strong.
I think he bides by England and is near.
And, in the purpose of his Overlord,
His weaving spirit, still in cloudless youth
With minstrelsy made perfect, throws a cord