Turn for a little and look what things are these
⁠Now fallen before thy knees;
Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee,
⁠Behold what things they be,
Italia: these are stubble that were steel,
⁠Dust, or a turning wheel;
As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so strong;
⁠And howl, for all their song,
And wail, for all their wisdom; they that were
⁠So great, they are all stript bare,
They are all made empty of beauty, and all abhorred;
⁠They are shivered, and their sword;
They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were wise;
⁠Yea, turn on these thine eyes,
O thou, soliciting with soul sublime
⁠The obscure soul of time,
Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears
⁠From broken swords of theirs,
Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled
⁠Tears for thy thousands dead,
And upon these, whose swords drank up like dew
⁠The sons of thine they slew,
These, whose each gun blasted with murdering mouth
⁠Live flowers of thy fair south,
These, whose least evil told in alien ears
⁠Turned men's whole blood to tears,
These, whose least sin remembered for pure shame
⁠Turned all those tears to flame,