Classic Poem

'Tis but a perfumed myth, the parlor song;
Wild is the street song, wild and new and strong
The old song is of myth and victory;
The new is bloody, and rings mournfully.
In parlors all is false, e'en to the tear;
Even the street's mad laughter is sincere
What in the parlor is deemed holiest
Is in the street an outworn tune, a jest
Affected weeping, crafty laughter low—
The street is bold in joyance and in woe.
The parlor song is morbid, sickly, pale—
The street displays its heart, and does not quail.
There for the old gods they shed tears of woe;
Here the sun set upon them long ago.
There skilful, splendid chorals greet the ear;
Simple but stormy songs are sounding here
The myth tomorrow may to heaven have flown;
The street song to an earthquake will have grown!