Alice Hunt Bartlett

Reactionary

With roar of many motors and the sound
Of myriads of tramping, dancing feet,
The whine of jazz and the persistent beat
Of snarring drums, ’tis thus our world swings round:
Where, in an age like this, may there be found
Remembered hours, desirable, complete,
When minds in true companionship might meet—
That highest gift with which man’s life is crowned?

If we on this confusion close the door,
What secrets might reflection not confide?
If modern mummers held the stage no more,
Delights of contemplation might abide
And we might find, as in the sweet days of yore,
Contentment by some quiet fireside.