THE HIPPOPOTAMUS
by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
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HE broad-backed hippopotamus
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Rests on his belly in the mud;
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Although he seems so firm to us
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He is merely flesh and blood.
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Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
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Susceptible to nervous shock;
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While the True Church can never fail
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For it is based upon a rock.
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The hippo's feeble steps may err
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In compassing material ends,
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While the True Church need never stir
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To gather in its dividends.
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The 'potamus can never reach
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The mango on the mango-tree;
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But fruits of pomegranate and peach
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Refresh the Church from over sea.
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At mating time the hippo's voice
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Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
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But every week we hear rejoice
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The Church, at being one with God.
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The hippopotamus's day
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Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
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God works in a mysterious way--
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The Church can sleep and feed at once.
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I saw the 'potamus take wing
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Ascending from the damp savannas,
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And quiring angels round him sing
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The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
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Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
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And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
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Among the saints he shall be seen
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Performing on a harp of gold.
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He shall be washed as white as snow,
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By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
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While the True Church remains below
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Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
"The Hippopotamus" is reprinted from Poems.
T.S. Eliot. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1920. |
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