Songs, Merry and Sad

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!