The Habit Of Perfection

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.