Yes, Let Art Go, If It Must Be That With It Men Must Starve - If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring From The Wasted Hearth. Pluck Out The Flower, However Fair, Whose Beauty Cannot Bloom, (However Sweet It Be, Or Rare) Save From A Noisome Tomb. These Social Manners, Charm And Ease, Are Hideous To Who Knows The Degradation, The Disease From Which Their Beauty Flows. So, Poet, Must Thy Singing Be; O Painter, So Thy Scene; Musician, So Thy Melody, While Misery Is Queen. Nay, Brothers, Sing Us Battle-Songs With Clear And Ringing Rhyme; Nay, Show The World Its Hateful Wrongs, And Bring The Better Time!