Classic Poem

Play me the languishing Prelude in A flat;
And muse, while sentiment pervades the strings,
Of Love's macassar-oiled Magnificat
Wafting the world on Mendelssohnian wings.
Scorn not mild mid-Victorian hearts unloaded
Of universal yearnings; thus they sighed . . .
Think, too, how we ourselves may be outmoded, —
Shorn of our psycho-analytic pride.
Those sinking chords can charm us and assuage
With amiable concinnity of style;
So let us welcome them for what they're worth
(Still gazing steadfast toward that epic age
When boudoir beauty shall no more beguile
And sentiment is elbowed off the earth.)