Elected Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear, 
Pipe me to pastures still and be 
The music that I care to hear. 

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
It is the shut, the curfew sent 
From there where all surrenders come
Which only makes you eloquent. 

Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark 
And find the uncreated light:
This ruck and reel which you remark 
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight. 

Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, 
Desire not to be rinsed with wine: 
The can must be so sweet, the crust
So fresh that come in fasts divine! 

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend 
Upon the stir and keep of pride, 
What relish shall the censers send 
Along the sanctuary side!

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet 
That want the yield of plushy sward, 
But you shall walk the golden street 
And you unhouse and house the Lord. 

And, Poverty, be thou the bride
And now the marriage feast begun, 
And lily-coloured clothes provide 
Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.