ON THE MODERNS, WITH PREJUDICE

Back to my Browning, muddling through,
Away from these moderns merely muddling,
Out of this morass of fancy despair,
Clear of this intricate befuddling,

Give me my Tennyson in doubt
But peering through to a speck of star,
But save me, do, from this certain doom
Charting tomorrows by things that are.

Sing again, Shelley, of new springs coming,
And chant, John Keats, that beauty is true,
And preach, John Milton, of sight in darkness,
Lest we be overcome by this cry and hue.

Better the chirp of a frost-chilled cricket,
Energizing her night-long hope
Than the meaningless moanings of circling prophets
With mind-cast blindness and life-long grope.

Better than turning one's back to the sunrise,
Than confirmation from scum surmise
Is the singing joy of a building sparrow
Or the foolish faith in a baby's eyes.