Elected Silence, sing to
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and
The music that I care to hear.
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
It is the shut, the curfew
From there where all surrenders
Which only makes you eloquent.
Be shellèd, eyes, with double
And find the uncreated light:
This ruck and reel which you
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
The can must be so sweet, the
So fresh that come in fasts divine!
Nostrils, your careless breath that
Upon the stir and keep of pride,
What relish shall the censers
Along the sanctuary side!
O feel-of-primrose hands,
O
That want the yield of plushy sward,
But you shall walk the golden
And you unhouse and house the Lord.
And,
Poverty, be thou the
And now the marriage feast begun,
And lily-coloured clothes
Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.
