Let Art awhile a gypsy be,
And words a vagrant throng—
Let all the lure of Romany
Come dancing up my song;
Come dancing zigzag on the breeze
Like whimsy thistle-down,
And caring less than it to please
The idlers of the town.
Let Art refresh our pallid schools
With crimson of the heart—
Let her forsake her cramping rules
And tear her measured chart;
And let her outcast brood of sound,
That know the scoffer’s sneer,
On savage lute and lyre astound
The little bards of fear.
Let Art regain her virgin flaw
And lose her studied grace,
And run, a maiden nude, to awe
The soulless market-place;
Let her tired hair unfold its braid
And lie along the wind,
Until again we see the maid
The Masters once designed.
We blush at passion in our runes,
And daring fancies shun;
Yet rather than an age of moons
Would I an hour of sun.
The droning scholars far too long
Have ruled the rhymes of men:
Bring back the wayward flights of song
And errant bards again.
