A Century of Parody and Imitation

by Unknown

And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,

Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms,

Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels;

And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;

Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?

For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,

Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passion