_The Muse said_, _Let us sing a little song_
_Wherein no hint of wrong_,
_No echo of the great world need_, _or pain_,
_Shall mar the strain_.
_Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart_;
_Keep sympathy apart_.
_Sing of the sunset_, _of the dawn_, _the sea_;
_Of any thing or nothing_, _so there be_
_No purpose to thy art_.
_Yea_, _let us make_, _art for Art’s sake_.
_And sing no more unto the hearts of men_,
_But for the critic’s pen_.
_With songs that are but words_, _sweet sounding words_,
_Like joyous jargon of the birds_.
_Tune now thy lyre_, _O Poet_, _and sing on_.
_Sing of_