AT ASSISI

Before St. Francis’ burg I wait,

Frozen in spirit, faint with dread;

His presence stands within the gate,

Mild splendor rings his head.

Gently he seems to welcome me:

Knows he not I am quick, and he

Is dead, and priest of the dead?

I turn away from the gray church pile;

I dare not enter, thus undone:

Here in the roadside grass awhile

I will lie and watch for the sun.

Too purged of earth's good glee and strife,

Too drained of the honied lusts of life,

Was the peace these old saints won!

And lo! how the laughing earth says no

To the fear that mastered me;

To the blood that aches and clamors so

How it whispers “Verily.”

Here by my side, marvelous-dyed,

Bold stray-away from the courts of pride,

A poppy-bell flaunts free.

St. Francis sleeps upon his hill,

And a poppy flower laughs down his creed;

Triumphant light her petals spill,

His shrines are dim indeed.

Men build and plan, but the soul of man,

Coming with haughty eyes to scan,

Feels richer, wilder need.

How long, old builder Time, wilt bide

Till at thy thrilling word

Life's crimson pride shall have to bride

The spirit's white accord,

Within that gate of good estate

Which thou must build us soon or late,

Hoar workman of the Lord?