The formless folded skies Took shape and were unfolded like as flowers. And I beheld the hours As maidens, and the days as labouring men, And the soft nights again As wearied women to their own souls wed, And ages as the dead. And over these living, and them that died, From one to the other side A lordlier light than comes of earth or air Made the world's future fair. A woman like to love in face, but not A thing of transient lot—      And like to hope, but having hold on truth—        And like to joy or youth, Save that upon the rock her feet were set—        And like what men forget, Faith, innocence, high thought, laborious peace—        And yet like none of these, Being not as these are mortal, but with eyes That sounded the deep skies And clove like wings or arrows their clear way Through night and dawn and day—      So fair a presence over star and sun Stood, making these as one. For in the shadow of her shape were all Darkened and held in thrall, So mightier rose she past them; and I felt Whose form, whose likeness knelt With covered hair and face and clasped her knees; And knew the first of these Was Freedom, and the second Italy. And what sad words said she For mine own grief I knew not, nor had heart        Therewith to bear my part And set my songs to sorrow; nor to hear How tear by sacred tear Fell from her eyes as flowers or notes that fall In some slain feaster's hall Where in mid music and melodious breath Men singing have seen death. So fair, so lost, so sweet she knelt; or so In our lost eyes below Seemed to us sorrowing; and her speech being said, Fell, as one who falls dead. And for a little she too wept, who stood Above the dust and blood And thrones and troubles of the world; then spake, As who bids dead men wake.      "Because the years were heavy on thy head; Because dead things are dead;      Because thy chosen on hill-side, city and plain Are shed as drops of rain; Because all earth was black, all heaven was blind, And we cast out of mind; Because men wept, saying Freedom, knowing of thee, Child, that thou wast not free; Because wherever blood was not shame was Where thy pure foot did pass; Because on Promethean rocks distent Thee fouler eagles rent; Because a serpent stains with slime and foam This that is not thy Rome; Child of my womb, whose limbs were made in me, Have I forgotten thee? In all thy dreams through all these years on wing, Hast thou dreamed such a thing? The 

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