Rubens Innocents

IF all those tumbling babes of heaven, Plump cherubim with blown cheeks, Could vault in these warm skies, or leaven Our starry silent mountain-peaks— O painter of chub-faced, shining-thighed Fat Ganymedes of God—what noise Would churn between the clouds and stride Far downward from those rose-mouthed boys! Down to our spires their lusty whooping, Fanfares of Paradise, would speed, Far down to dark-faced clergy stooping Round altars of their doleful creed; And God, whose wings of silver sweep Like metal afire on heaven's rim, Would daze them with a twinkling peep Of those young moon-stained cherubim— Then, for a trice, their skies might sparkle, And some gold ichor splash amid Those most respectable, patriarchal Purveyors of stale pardons, hid Behind their old cathedral closes From this unguessed, unguessable God, Shining before their learned noses Down roads that Peter Rubens trod.