Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,
We see her line of poets stretching back
Ten centuries, a bright, immortal track.
Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,
They built her glory out of deathless dream.
Ah, more is that wild beauty left by Keats
Than all the blazon of her kingly seats;
More is that wonder from the hand of Blake
Than all her guns that make the nations quake;
More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,