| |
| BABY Priests | |
| On green sward | |
| Yew-closed | |
| Silk beaver | |
| Rhythm of redemption | 5 |
| Fluttering of Breviaries | |
| |
| Fluted black silk cloaks | |
| Hung square from shoulders | |
| Troncated juvenility | |
| Uniform segration | 10 |
| Union in severity | |
| Modulation | |
| Intimidation | |
| Pride of misapprehended preparation | |
| Ebony statues training for immobility | 15 |
| Anæmic jawed | |
| Wise saw to one another | |
| |
| Prettily the little ones | |
| Gesticulate benignly upon one another in the sun buzz— | |
| Finger and thumb circles postulate pulpits | 20 |
| Profiles forsworn to Donatello | |
| Munching tall talk vestral shop | |
| Evangelical snobs | |
| Uneasy dreaming | |
| In hermetically-sealed dormitories | 25 |
| Not of me or you Sister Saraminta | |
| Of no more or less | |
| Than the fit of Pope’s mitres | |
| |
| It is an old religion that put us in our places | |
| Here am I in lilac print | 30 |
| Preposterously no less than the world flesh and devil | |
| Having no more idea what those are | |
| What I am | |
| Than Baby Priests of what “He” is | |
| or they are— | 35 |
| Messianic mites tripping measured latin ring-a-roses | |
| Subjugated adolescence | |
| Retraces loose steps to furling of Breviaries | |
| In broiling shadows | |
| The last with apostolic lurch | 40 |
| Tries for a high hung fruit | |
| And misses | |
| Any way it is inedible | |
| It is always thus | |
| In the Public Garden. | 45 |
| |
| Parallel lines | |
| An old man | |
| Eyeing a white muslin girl’s school | |
| And all this | |
| As pleasant as bewildering | 50 |
| Would not eventually meet | |
| I am for ever bewildered | |
| Old men are often grown greedy— | |
| What nonsense | |
| It is noon | 55 |
| And salvation’s seedlings | |
| Are headed off for the refectory. | |
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