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!