THE AUGURS

Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect

Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual,

Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall,

Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect

The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked

Beneath the bandages that hid it all,

And with sharp edgetools oecumenical

The leprous carcases of creeds dissect.

As on the night ere Brutus grew divine

The sick-souled augurs found their ox or swine

Heartless; so now too by their after art

In the same Rome, at an uncleaner shrine,

Limb from rank limb, and putrid part from part,

They carve the corpse — a beast without a heart.