Of infant Sitwells baying at the moon;
Of abstruse Eliot, and the effete
Vieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!
See, here they come! The martial music swells;
Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells;
And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow,
Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low!
Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels,
The while each poet mouthes his roundelay—
The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!