Whose flaccid academic pulses

Beat to no rythms of more Dionysiac scope

Than metronomes,—

Or dollar-twenty-five alarm-clocks,—

They will forever

Cavail at novelty, at beauty, at freshness;

But, hell!—

But, a thousand devils!—

But, Henri Quatre and the Pont Neuf!—

We of the new age, who leap upon the mountains like goats upon the heaps of tin cans in the vacant lots, and butt the stars,—