The Habit of Perfection

Elected Silence, sing to meAnd beat upon my whorlèd ear,Pipe me to pastures still and beThe music that I care to hear.

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:It is the shut, the curfew sentFrom there where all surrenders comeWhich only makes you eloquent.

Be shellèd, eyes, with double darkAnd find the uncreated light:This ruck and reel which you remarkCoils, 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 crustSo fresh that come in fasts divine!

Nostrils, your careless breath that spendUpon the stir and keep of pride,What relish shall the censers sendAlong the sanctuary side!

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feetThat want the yield of plushy sward,But you shall walk the golden streetAnd you unhouse and house the Lord.

And, Poverty, be thou the brideAnd now the marriage feast begun,And lily-coloured clothes provideYour spouse not laboured-at nor spun.