by Francis Thompson
Thou find'st men say, the thing that is lost,
Behold this England
which knows thee not.
For she hath lost an antique pearl of great price.
Her loss is old: wherefore she hath forgot all but the lack
that teaches her its cost and quests with many a void device
Indeed unwitting what.
And with religion vain,
all things she searcheth that are for her pain
With veriest prayer importunes
Leading on all paths that err.
Yield, Anthony, her blind petition
After God's own mind and those calm ways
The unhasty Heavens allot
The things she seeketh, give her not to find.
Give her the thing, she seeketh not.
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