The Monk (2)

Not the tragic strings 
Of the inner heart
Will I pull taut
To be played upon by every fool musician
The [glimsy]-souled centres of piety
Seeking a covering of art.

O I must play on the cat-gut
Strings of nonsense
A tango for the Many
Rich-loud with the spent fury of flesh torments.

And I will not live worn
Down to the foundations
Of uninspired lust,
A beggar of husk-wild corn.
In the Enclosure rare passions
Stab through the ascetic crust.