Enormous power, ugly to the fool, And beautiful as a well-handled tool.

These, and the memory of that windy day On the bare hills, beyond the last barbed wire, When all the orange poppies bloomed one way As if a breath would blow them into fire,

I keep forever, like the sea-lion’s tusk The broken sailor brings away to land, But when he touches it, he smells the musk, And the whole sea lies hollow in his hand.

So, from a hundred visions, I make one, And out of darkness build my mocking sun.

And should that task seem fruitless in the eyes Of those a different magic sets apart To see through the ice-crystal of the wise No nation but the nation that is Art,