As I walk through the streets,
I think of the things
That are given to my friends:
Myths of old Greece and Egypt,
Greek flowers, Greek thoughts,
And all that incandescence,
All that grace,
Which I refuse.

If even the orchards of England,
Its gardens and its woods,
Its fields and its hills,
Its rivers and its seas,
Were mine;
But they are not.

But these are, nothing.
Give me the flame, O Gods,
To light these people with,
These pavements, this motor traffic,
These houses, this medley.

Give me the vision,
And they may live.