Lest I should ever be mistaken for a mad Manichaean,
Who am enamored of realities maybe not three-dimensioned enough,
I hereby praise God loudly for all measurements and materials,
Foliage, flesh, fabric and fiber, substance and stuff.
I praise Him for the volatile violets in little convent conservatories,
For the innocent odors of lilies and the pure aromas of roses,
Which even the most ethereal Port Royalists may inhale without scruples,
May sniff with their delicate nostrils and enjoy with their noses,
And then go back to the molding and minding of their nuns and their novices,
Undaunted, unsullied, unruffled, unshriven, unabashed and unblamed,
Knowing they have done nothing to violate any one of the Commandments,
Knowing they have done absolutely nothing of which to be ashamed.