God, on a Sunday morning, Sits in his old armchair Comforting May Madonna -- Slip-heel who fell the stair. God, on a Sunday morning, Rabble around his knee, Counting the Yiddish babies, Jouncing the Ebony, Driving the Nordic cross-eyed Over the bark-skinned bow, Telling a saffron silly Something she yearned to know. Teaching the Chinese cherubs Little slow-motion jigs, Cannibal babes to nibble Nothing but sugared figs, Waving the popcorn scepter, Tossing the tamarind, Hiding his bags of thunder Under the rain and wind. God, on a Sunday morning, Reaching the dotage stage, Tearing up all the blacklists -- Making the adults rage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (1) by THOMAS CAREW THE SHADES OF NIGHT by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE WOUND-DRESSER by WALT WHITMAN WHERE SHALL I DIE? by MARIA ABDY THE BOUNDARIES OF APPRECIATION by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. THE GASTRIC MUSE by JOHN ARMSTRONG NORTHERN CALIFORNIA NIGHT (STRAITS OF CARQUINEZ) by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |