Protest
Oh, I am weary, weary, wearyOf Pan and oaten quillsAnd 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 artTill art is but a formal figure, bringingA money-measured heart,Procrustean cut, and, with old echoes, ringingIts bells about the mart?
The race moves on, and leaves no wildernessesWhere rugged voices cry;It reads its prayer, and with set phrase it blessesThe 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 rejoicesShould never wake againTo shock a world of modulated voicesAnd mediocre men,
Then he is blest who wears the painted featherAnd may not turn aboutTo dusks when muses romped the dewy heatherIn unrestricted routAnd dawns when, if the stars had sung together,The sons of God would shout!