Protest

Oh, I am weary, weary, weary

Of Pan and oaten quills

And little songs that, from the dictionary,

Learn lore of streams and hills,

Of studied laughter, mocking what is merry,

And calculated thrills!

Are we grown old and past the time of singing?

Is ardor quenched in art

Till art is but a formal figure, bringing

A money-measured heart,

Procrustean cut, and, with old echoes, ringing

Its bells about the mart?

The race moves on, and leaves no wildernesses

Where rugged voices cry;

It reads its prayer, and with set phrase it blesses

The souls of men who die,

And step by even step its rank progresses,

An army marshalled by.

If it be better so, that Babel noises,

Losing all course and ken,

And grief that wails and gladness that rejoices

Should never wake again

To shock a world of modulated voices

And mediocre men,

Then he is blest who wears the painted feather

And may not turn about

To dusks when muses romped the dewy heather

In unrestricted rout

And dawns when, if the stars had sung together,

The sons of God would shout!