When wild conceits were piled in scores,
And lit by flaming metaphors,
When all was crazed and out of tune,--
Yet throbbed with music of the moon.
If we could dare to write as ill
As some whose voices haunt us till,
Even we, perchance, might call our own
Their deep enchanting undertone.
We are too diffident and nice,
Too learnèd and too over-wise,
Too much afraid of faults to be
The flutes of bold sincerity.
For as this sweet life passes by,
We blink and not with critic eye;
We've no words rude enough to give
Its charm so frank and fugitive.
The green and scarlet of the Park,
The undulating streets at dark,
The brown smoke blown across the blue,
This colored city we walk through;--
The pallid faces full of pain,
The field-smell of the passing wain,
The laughter, longing, perfume, strife,
The daily spectacle of life;--
Ah! how shall this be given to rhyme,
By rhymesters of a knowing time?
Ah! for the age when verse was clad,
Being godlike, to be bad and mad.
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