Heavenly Father, who in Heaven must be:
for in Wren’s cathedral, though I do see
matchless splendour, there’s no divinity.
Those angels hovering in the air
are to my willful eye passing fair.
And it will not shut itself in prayer.
The feast is laid, and the senses will dine
Pardon me, for I must stray awhile
to return that darling cherub’s smile
and to admire old architectural style
At midnight sharp, by St Paul’s clock
I shall sit by the river on the sidewalk
And there, in silence, we shall talk
You in your Heaven, and me in mine