What Was In A Name by Carolyn Kizer

Thomas Love Peacock! Thomas Love Peacock!
I used to croon, sitting on the pot,
My sympatethic magic, at age three.
These elements in balance captured me:
Love in the middle, on his right hand a saint
And doubter. Gentle a Kempis, Thomas the Rhymer,
Wyatt, Campion, Traherne, came later.

One Love's left hand, the coarse essentials:
Skimp them, and Love, denying, slides away
Into pure Thomas, etiolated sainthood.
Before cock, the satisfying sound of liquid
Which, as it strikes against the enamel basin,
Proclaims a bodily creativity.
Then Love springs eternal; then cock comes

Demonstrating Love. The surname is complete:
Its barbed crest, its thousand eyes, its harsh cries.
Thomas Love Peacock! Thomas Love Peacock!
The person unsung, the person ritually sung.
But that was thirty years ago; a child's loving
Of God, the body, flesh of poetry.
I hail the three-in-one, the one-in-three.