The old Romantics whom the Moderns despise
Operate clandestinely in our skies,
Pray to Apollo, lie in long grass,
The happiest knights, beloved of a lass
Tender, smiling, and virtuous.
They care not if they use words
“Moony” and “bloomy.”
If Keats is not, why should you be gloomy?
Keats cannot be read all day.
His gemmy joy goes a long way,
But stay awhile in Keats’ thrall—
Next to Keats, Wallace Stevens is a goof-ball.
Hear Keats’ music and be content—
Otherwise an ass in your modern apartment.
True, not everyone can appreciate Keats,
They open their lips for lower treats;
They hunger and suffer to amuse
The devil who reads the news.
Not every lad can swoon, rarefied,
Or have I lied?
