Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service

​

Look, look, master, here

comes two religious caterpillars.

The Jew of Malta.

​

Polyphiloprogenitive

The sapient sutlers of the Lord

Drift across the window-panes.

In the beginning was the Word.

​

In the beginning was the Word.

Superfetation of τò εν,

And at the mensual turn of time

Produced enervate Origen.

 

A painter of the Umbrian school

Designed upon a gesso ground

The nimbus of the Baptized God.

The wilderness is cracked and browned

 

But through the water pale and thin

Still shine the unoffending feet

And there above the painter set

The Father and the Paraclete

. . . . . .

The sable presbyters approach

The avenue of penitence;

The young are red and pustular

Clutching piaculative pence.

 

Under the penitential gates

Sustained by staring Seraphim

Where the souls of the devout

Burn invisible and dim.

 

Along the garden-wall the bees

With hairy bellies pass between

The staminate and pistilate,

Blest office of the epicene.

 

Sweeney shifts from ham to ham

Stirring the water in his bath.

The masters of the subtle schools

Are controversial, polymath.