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With passages from a hymn
by Robert Robinson (1735-1790)
My gold ring prominent, banding
Loud the warp of fingers, holding
Now missal, now rites, now Testament, singing
Linear hymns, devolving rhymes, harping
On blood, on death, on sacrifice, scorching
Words against a nursery tune. Looking
Through pews, it is not amusing
But blood serious, dead-on viewing
This dark maiden of the angel face, streaming
Agate hair, devout as a nun of Bocaccio's inventing,
Weary with hear, plum prime for the picking
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above;
(My body is still warm: it still expects
This torrent of antic maidenhood to beg
My eyes, my head, my personal effects
To focus over crotchets, to a leg;
Responding to my bidding, yes in spades,
My heart suborns its history to maids.)
Let thy goodness like a fetter
Bind my wandering heart to Thee;
Christ, my soul is no jot better
Than the day I knew what Lust to be.
Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
How my eyes take pure delight
Here's my heart, oh, take and seal it,
Shield my eyes, as Sampson's, from the light.
8.1.97
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