The day has gone of lovely things,
1
According to the modern bard;
Of dreariness and dross he sings,
And hymns the homely and the hard,
The sweat-shop and the engine yard;
5
Of these he makes his doleful tune,
And plenteous slang doth interlard—
I still prefer to sing the moon.
Dry are the Heliconian springs,
9
And sere is Enna flower-bestarred;
Speak not of Pegasus his wings,
For all such ancientry is barred,—
Yea! feathered shalt thou be and tarred
13
For such old nonsense in thy rune,—
I still prefer to sing the moon.
Nor dare to speak of queens and kings,
17
Democracy is now the card;
On the fair Past the poet flings
The flint, the pebble and the shard;
The gospels of the Savoyard
21
Have wrought this sans-culottish boon,—
O for some frankincense and nard!
I still prefer to sing the moon.
Ah! Prince—or rather I mean "pard"—
25
Let's to our lotus and lagoon,
And call for our Pretorian guard:
I still prefer to sing the moon.