THOU shinest in the morning's eye alone,
Pure on the blue, a pyramid of light,
Immaculate, but lifted to that height
By burning wrong and sorrow made thine own.
Fierce evils, out-cast from a depth unknown,
Pour from thy open wounds by day and night,
And still thou standest silent, calm, and white,
While at thy feet the shallow waves make moan.

Martyr of mountains, shall I say, the Christ,
Bearing earth's sorrows, for its trespass made
Sin, that her sons may reap the fair increase
Of smiling fields? The offering hath sufficed:
The olive thrives, since on thy head is laid
The fiery 'chastisement of' Europe's 'peace.'