I say unto thee, Arise."       §      She ceased, and heaven was full of flame and sound, And earth's old limbs unbound Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew and seed Shed through her at this her need:      And highest in heaven, a mother and full of grace, With no more covered face, With no more lifted hands and bended knees, Rose, as from sacred seas Love, when old time was full of plenteous springs, That fairest-born of things, The land that holds the rest in tender thrall For love's sake in them all, That binds with words and holds with eyes and hands All hearts in all men's lands. So died the dream whence rose the live desire That here takes form and fire, A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep Risen, that ye should not weep, Should not weep more nor ever, O ye that hear And ever have held her dear, Seeing now indeed she weeps not who wept sore, And sleeps not any more. Hearken ye towards her, O people, exalt your eyes; Is this a thing that dies?       §      Italia! by the passion of the pain That bent and rent thy chain; Italia! by the breaking of the bands, The shaking of the lands; Beloved, O men's mother, O men's queen, Arise, appear, be seen! Arise, array thyself in manifold Queen's raiment of wrought gold; With girdles of green freedom, and with red Roses, and white snow shed Above the flush and frondage of the hills That all thy deep dawn fills And all thy clear night veils and warms with wings Spread till the morning sings; The rose of resurrection, and the bright Breast lavish of the light, The lady lily like the snowy sky Ere the stars wholly die; As red as blood, and whiter than a wave, Flowers grown as from thy grave, From the green fruitful grass in Maytime hot, Thy grave, where thou art not. Gather the grass and weave, in sacred sign Of the ancient earth divine,      The holy heart of things, the seed of birth, The mystical warm earth. O thou her flower of flowers, with treble braid Be thy sweet head arrayed, In witness of her mighty motherhood Who bore thee and found thee good, Her fairest-born of children, on whose head Her green and white and red Are hope and light and life, inviolate Of any latter fate. Fly, O our flag, through deep Italian air, Above the flags that were, The dusty shreds of shameful battle-flags Trampled and rent in rags, As withering woods in autumn's bitterest breath Yellow, and black as death; Black as crushed worms that sicken in the 

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