Saint Swithun, he sullies seagirt Saxons,
promising them pestering plumes onward still
for forty days, fettering fast and feastings
as midsummer meanders to Mary’s meet
glory, glancing ever on glory gleaming,
and looks long and lingeringly on lilting
Autumn asters, announcing the auspices
of New Years and yearnings yet, Nativity
and Entry, and evensong in elm-branch booths,
and hallows heaped in haven halls, heaven’s halls,
kings and crowns and cornucopiae comely.
Still, sweet sunlight on the sainted isles signals
that iatric illuminations, those ill
omens obviating, shall yet ordain o’er
whistling words and whelping works of whitened wheat
bright begetting, and beaming boast of those things
made mighty mystery and meek mastery.
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