When the stars are muffled and under them all the earth Is a fiery fog and the sinister roar of London, They lament for the toil of their hands, their souls' travail-- "Ah, the beautiful work!" It was set to shine in the sun, to companion the stars To endure as the hills, the ancient hills, endure, Lo, like a brand It lies, a brand consumed and blackened of fire, In the fierce heart of London. Or, like Dante, this poet will follow the old ghosts to a more dreadful region, and bring them news of home-- Fain would my spirit, My living soul beat up the wind of death To the inaccessible shore and with warm voice Deep-resonant of the earth, salute the dead: ..... I also would bring To the old unheeded spirits news of Earth; Of England, their own country, choose to tell them, And how above St. Edward's bones the Minister Gloriously stands, how it no more beholds The silver Thames broadening among green meadows And gardens green, nor sudden shimmer of streams And the clear mild blue hills. Rather so high it stands the whole earth under Spreads boundless and the illimitable sea. The steps of the sentry, pacing over the stones which cover the great dead below, remind her of those other builders who lie there, makers of Empire. Over what dust the atom footfall passes! Out of what distant lands, by what adventures Superbly gathered To lie so still in the unquiet heart of London! Is not the balm of Africa yet clinging About the bones of Livingstone? Consider The long life-wandering, the strange last journey Of this, the heroic lion-branded corpse, Still urging to the sea! And here the eventual far-off deep repose.