The fallen angel on the southwest tower is difficult to see from the ground. He has shriveled wings, stolen halos on his arm, and an eternal supply of petulance.
29 DECEMBER/TE DEUM
“Come rhyme with me; I rise to dance,” you lie;
Like medlar rashly dropped, I’ll ripen not.
Now overturn my sodden pith and pry
For secrets, hard as seeds. Behold my rot:
I holp no palmers whon thot thay bay seck;
No elvysh poppets twang may turvy rhyme;
Their ferney hawls I longen for to wreck:
“No bishop murdered yet?” Oh, give us time,
Though crypts below will blaze in shadows’ wake,
Though bannerets above must fly unfurled,
Though quires within call reprobates to quake,
Though bells on high will warn a weary world
And make me loathe and love what they begat:
A blessed bishop born a Cheapside brat.
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