Dear Humanist, this roaring street Is far enough from your still garden close; And here we move on hastier feet; Much like the feet of those Who fear to miss what they pursue. The same old Beauty, as no doubt you guess, But moving with unwonted liveliness, And, like the ladies on the avenue, All given just now to changeful thoughts of dress. I find on every hand this tendency To lay new stress upon the new; The past has very decently Interred its dead for us; We cultivate the curious, And rather seek to leave behind Those universal points of view That always had a charm for you Who loiter down more tranquil ways, Still musing on the ancient days And with the eternal years in mind. From the becoming flux of things, Our livelier inspiration springs; And while we do not doubt That men have had a common history, We hold that the immediate Me Is art's concern, and still unique. Our effort must be to express An egocentric consciousness That leaves tradition absolutely out, And never blurs originality With echoes of conventions not its own, Or derivation's tiresome overtone. . . . And yet, sometimes there comes to me The thought of the brave revels that you hold -- Those feasts where new and old Make up one gallant company; And then I find myself remembering A bit of classic genealogy -- A tale so ancient that it may be true -- Which says the Muses did not spring From the young Inspiration that we woo, Nor any pert Originality, But all are daughters of that Memory Who gravely walks with you. |