The Unrelenting Mystery

I could never Govern
The Mystery Unrelenting.
Never wandered that Cavern ;
Unlit, Deep and Dark and Dripping.

But I am almost sure
That those Holy Temples;
High on Curvy Tops pure,
Or the Bottomless, Burning Bowels

Many a Pilgrim trodden the Lines.
With ease, I suppose, with Compleat Puissance.
Plunged into those Holy Temples of Divines.
With Tears of Joy, in Piety and Reverence.

Some, I think, riding on the Ass.
Some, in purple with style, like Royalty,
Beside a Doggy with Endless Loyalty.
While quite a many at Proscenium Amass.

More turned down at the Doors.
Crawling back on four for Altars' Backdoors.
Begging, Craving to be let in.
For Whatever they have as a Trade-in.

The Cups have filled the Hands of Savant.
And the Hand made the Cups
Run over with Milk and Nectar Sweet.
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