THE CUBIST

I wandered to-day in an institute, A wonderful palace of art, And this I can say in spirit and truth, It was a delight to my heart, To see how the masters of ages past Have found a place in this shrine, Till I came to a room, methinks ’twas the last, Which the Cubist’s contortions confine. A disgrace, I said, to allow in this place, What lunatic homes should adorn, An insult to art and the human race, Of spirits degenerate born, A meaningless daub, a horrid display Of colors and lines and all, But then to myself I also did say: May be ’tis the age—and its soul. A wicked word it was this to say, As I left for the congested street, And followed the masses which made their way To a place where ten thousand did meet Three times a day, to be edified With burlesque, in Jesus name, And painfully in my soul it cried: “The Cubist again, just the same!” I glanced at a paper at hour of sleep, And found a whole page about bards, Who gained a renown by a single leap, With something which all art discards, Again I said: ’tis the Cubist’s age, A prophet is he after all, Of the church and the stage and the printed page, Of the age that has bartered its soul.