My Virtual Reading Room

The Purist

He sauntered through the pearly town,
Critical, chill, aloof,
And favored Heaven with a frown
Of casual reproof;

Observed the scrolls upon the gate,
The moons, the rings-of-Saturn,
And doubted that they followed straight
The ancient classic pattern.

Then tasted the eternal bread
And sipped the unfailing wine.
"A vintage only fair," he said,
"Scarce the authentic Vine."

He strolled to Time's extremest rim
And stopped, and cupped his ears,
And presently there came to him
The music of the spheres.

He sighed, "They flatted once or twice,
Though pleasant enough they played."
So, for a while, through Paradise
Mirth drooped and was dismayed,

Till suddenly a little gust
(Breath of his own disdain)
Blew up and scattered him like dust
Along the starry plain.

(Phyllis McGinley)