The Goths in all the bars are drinking
Bourbon and soda, Danish beer;
The Dalai Lama’s legate, blinking
Before the monsignori, assays
His ounce or two of charm; and near
As near can be, the Jesuits, thinking
Vast majestic thoughts, and ways
And means and ends, contrive a mere
Amendment to the rite of Travancore.
At Ara Coeli they are singing
Despite their years of ignorance,
Are asking mercy on the ringing
Names of those who knew too much;
And half an age away, a glance
Brings cardinals to the airport, flinging
Aside the world; and there is such
A fast car everywhere, and chance
Of meeting saints alive or under glass.
O Rome, concentrix of the trains,
Whether of watered silk or steel,
The domed pendentive sky contains
Both sun and moon together, holds,
O martyr city, ancient, real,
Time and the dawning world, explains
The bishops in their whites and golds
To one another as they kneel,
And signifies, 0 Rome, the will of Heaven.
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