“
Now reading
The Obsolescence of Thou
Last heard in a country church, in a prayer
That an elderly spinstress had decked out
In what manner she thought befitting
For heaven's immoderate ears, it seemed
All a Sunday rite and benediction
Except some grave care in its blurting-out
Made me think of the papa she'd tended
And kisses foregone for her all-mending,
Hands-on balm and alertness to afflictions
Just surrendered to the cemetery.
But also the way her prayer always ended
("Have thine own sweet way sweet Lord,
Have thine own sweet way") broadened the context
So I'd attach it to Pound wooing Keats
("O thou ivory sandaled woman of my dreams"),
And love that did get made, often sweetly
(But how soon antiqued and caricatured) -
Not that I'd managed it yet myself,
Just that it seemed prudent to have some sins
To repent, and that one in particular.