Chapter 7 No.7

O hills of Crete, are these things dead? O waves,

O many-mouthed streams, are these springs dry?

Earth, dost thou feed and hide now none but slaves?

Heaven, hast thou heard of men that would not die?

Is the land thick with only such men's graves

As were ashamed to look upon the sky?

Ye dead, whose name outfaces and outbraves

Death, is the seed of such as you gone by?

Sea, have thy ports not heard

Some Marathonian word

Rise up to landward and to Godward fly?

No thunder, that the skies

Sent not upon us, rise

With fire and earthquake and a cleaving cry?

Nay, light is here, and shall be light,

Though all the face of the hour be overborne with night.