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.

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