The Habit of Perfection

Elected Silence, sing to me     And beat upon my whorld ear,     Pipe me to pastures still and be     The music that I care to hear.     Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:     It is the shut, the curfew sent     From there where all surrenders come     Which only makes you eloquent.     Be shelld, eyes, with double dark     And find the uncreated light:     This ruck and reel which you remark     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 crust     So fresh that come in fasts divine!     Nostrils, your careless breath that spend     Upon the stir and keep of pride,     What relish shall the censers send     Along the sanctuary side!     O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet     That want the yield of plushy sward,     But you shall walk the golden street     And you unhouse and house the Lord.     And, Poverty, be thou the bride     And now the marriage feast begun,     And lily-coloured clothes provide     Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.