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...THE MEANING OF THE LOOK by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 23 by OMAR KHAYYAM YARROW UNVISITED by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH DRINKING SONG (5) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE MY FRIEND by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |