Where Ind's enamelled peaks arise Around that inmost one,Where ancient eagles on its brink,Vast as archangels, gather and drink The sacrament of the sun.
And men brake out of the northern lands, Enormous lands alone,Where a spell is laid upon life and lustAnd the rain is changed to a silver dust And the sea to a great green stone.
And a Shape that moveth murkily In mirrors of ice and night,Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds,As death and a shock of evil words Blast a man's hair with white.
And the cry of the palms and the purple moons, Or the cry of the frost and foam,Swept ever around an inmost place,And the din of distant race on race Cried and replied round Rome.
And there was death on the Emperor And night upon the Pope;And Alfred, hiding in deep grass, Hardened his heart with hope.
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