Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
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ook, look, master, here comes two religiouscaterpillars.The Jew of Malta. PolyphiloprogenitiveThe sapient sutlers of the LordDrift across the window-panes.In the beginning was the Word. In the beginning was the Word.Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],And at the mensual turn of timeProduced enervate Origen. A painter of the Umbrian schoolDesigned upon a gesso groundThe nimbus of the Baptized God.The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thinStill shine the unoffending feetAnd there above the painter setThe Father and the Paraclete.. . . . .The sable presbyters approachThe avenue of penitence;The young are red and pustularClutching piaculative pence. Under the penitential gatesSustained by staring SeraphimWhere the souls of the devoutBurn invisible and dim. Along the garden-wall the beesWith hairy bellies pass betweenThe staminate and pistilate,Blest office of the epicene. Sweeney shifts from ham to hamStirring the water in his bath.The masters of the subtle schoolsAre controversial, polymath.
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