Cant en route to Canterbury

Of all the pilgrims on this road, my friend,

the ugly and the beautiful, I think

there’s none to pleasure me so well and tend

my sickly soul, and yet there is a wink

that makes me wonder.  Warts and all, and pus

into blanc-mange, or knobbly pimples, all

are candidates for evil.  But the plus

and minus in them never cancels: fall,

ascent—there’s always something to appeal.

You never tell us who you are, or tall

or short, or slim or pudgy—what is real?

You make the judgments, damn the text, reveal

the secrets of our confidence.  To hell,

ingratiating fool! I weave the spell.