IF all those tumbling babes of heaven, <br />Plump cherubim with blown cheeks, <br />Could vault in these warm skies, or leaven <br />Our starry silent mountain-peaks— <br />O painter of chub-faced, shining-thighed <br />Fat Ganymedes of God—what noise <br />Would churn between the clouds and stride <br />Far downward from those rose-mouthed boys! <br />Down to our spires their lusty whooping, <br />Fanfares of Paradise, would speed, <br />Far down to dark-faced clergy stooping <br />Round altars of their doleful creed; <br />And God, whose wings of silver sweep <br />Like metal afire on heaven's rim, <br />Would daze them with a twinkling peep <br />Of those young moon-stained cherubim— <br />Then, for a trice, their skies might sparkle, <br />And some gold ichor splash amid <br />Those most respectable, patriarchal <br />Purveyors of stale pardons, hid <br />Behind their old cathedral closes <br />From this unguessed, unguessable God, <br />Shining before their learned noses <br />Down roads that Peter Rubens trod.<br /><br />Kenneth Slessor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rubens-innocents/
