England, what have you done to make the speech My fathers used a stranger to my lips, An offence to the ear, a shackle on the tongue That would fit new thoughts to an abiding tune? Answer me now. The workshop where they wrought Stands idle, and thick dust covers their tools. The blue metal of streams, the copper and gold Seams in the wood are all unquarried; the leaves' Intricate filigree falls, and who shall renew Its brisk pattern? When spring wakens the hearts Of the young children to sing, what song shall be theirs?