Ionian
Just because we’ve torn their statues down,
And cast them from their temples,
Doesn’t for a moment mean the gods are dead.
Land of Ionia, they love you yet,
Their spirits still remember you.
When an August morning breaks upon you
A vigour from their lives stabs through your air;
And sometimes an ethereal and youthful form
In swiftest passage, indistinct,
passes up above your hills.
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