Sonnet To Beauty

The wonder of light is your familiar tale, Pert wench, down to the nineteenth century: Mr. Rimbaud the Frenchman's apostasy Asserts the argument that you are stale, Flat and unprofitable, importunate but paie, Lithe Corpse! His defect of philosophy Impugned, but could not strip your entity Of light. Broken, our twilit visions fail. Beauty, the doctrine of the incorporate Word Conceives your fame; how else should you subsist? The present age, beak southward, flies like a bird For often at Church I've seen the stained high glass Pour out the Virgin and Saints, twist and untwist The mortal youth of Christ astride an ass.