Emerson at Harvard Divinity
The thrush itself brings deception, and the wine is out of season.
From Spring we have grieved for what hasn’t happened, wasted
Nines, evensong; and I haven’t seen my family since Christmas.
Lo, the Genius of our administration has brought forth a poet
To break Our Lord’s balls. Steeped in community three decades, and now
Besought to look, oh inward, for the pulse pushing piety, or the true
Ignominy. I will have enough trouble with a parish, my poverty
And the artfulness of the seven sins: In illness best seek hospice.
Certainly this private prince is alone in the world, closeted in prayer,
Yet closeted in thought, deed and further deprived of compassion.
Any common cluck has read the Vedant: What contradiction is this?
We are told not to tell; sought not to seek; taught not to teach.
Gracious God, weakly we thank thee, and more weakly still, humanity.
The races and faiths of ages rising from debasement to debasement
Are further abused by the rule of Holy Days, coupled with such
Precious lavation. Jesus, Jesus and your sparrow are falling.