LINES PROVOKED BY HEARING A YOUNG MAN WHISTLING

No carmine radical in Art, 
I worship at the shrine of Form; 
Yet open are my mind and heart 
To each departure from the norm. 
When Post-Impressionism emerged, 
I hesitated but a minute 
Before I saw, though it diverged, 
That there was something healthy in it.

And eke when Music, heavenly maid, 
Undid the chains that chafed her feet, 
I grew to like discordant shade-- 
Unharmony I thought was sweet. 
When verse divorced herself from sound, 
I wept at first. Now I say: "Oh, well, 
I see some sense in Ezra Pound, 
And nearly some in Amy Lowell."

Yet, though I storm at every change, 
And each mutation makes me wince, 
I am not shut to all things strange-- 
I'm rather easy to convince. 
But hereunto I set my seal, 
My nerves awry, askew, abristling: 
I'll never change the way I feel 
Upon the question of Free Whistling.