Classic Poem

The modern muse endeavors to divest
Herself of flounces, frills, and furbelows.
The idea is presented plainly dressed;
The style is simple as the simplest prose.

Simplicity is all the go to-day —
The gospel Yeats and other poets preach.
" We tried, " he lately said, " to strip away
All artifice, and get a style like speech. "

They have succeeded. Rhetoric's taboo,
And all that's artificial is forsworn.
The thought is born as naked to the view
As was the poet when himself was born.

Yard upon yard of modern verse I read
As unadorned, as pleasing as is this.
An excellent intention I concede,
Yet somehow feel that somewhat is amiss.

In all the tapestries of modern song
I seem to sense that something should be changed.
To save my soul I can't tell what is wrong —
Perhaps the way the pattern is arranged.

The stuff is there, the structure's nobly planned,
The thoughts are winged, and bright as tropic birds. . . .
I guess I'm waiting for some master hand
To come along and rearrange the words.