FRIAR YVES

Said Friar Yves: “God will bless

Saint Louis’ other-worldliness.

Whatever the fate be, still I fare

To fight for the Holy Sepulcher.

If I survive, I shall return

With precious things from Palestine —

Gold for my purse, spices and wine,

Glory to wear among my kin.

Fame as a warrior I shall win.

But, otherwise, if I am slain

In Jesus’ cause, my soul shall earn

Immortal life washed white from sin.”

Said Friar Yves: “Come what will —

Riches and glory, death and woe —

At dawn to Palestine I go.

Whether I live or die, I gain

To fly the tepid good and ill

Of daily living in Champagne,

Where those who reach salvation lose

The treasures, raptures of the earth,

Captured, possessed, and made to serve

The gospel love of Jesus’ birth,

Sacrifice, death; where even those

Passing from pious works and prayer

To paradise are not received

As those who battled, strove, and lived,

And periled bodies, as I choose

To peril mine, and thus to use

Body and soul to build the throne

Of Louis the Saint, where Joseph's care

Lay Jesus under a granite stone.”

Then Friar Yves buckled on

His breastplate, and, at break of dawn,

With crossboy, halberd took his way,

Walked without resting, without pause,

Till the sun hovered at midday

Over a tree of glistening leaves,

Where a spring gurgled. “Hunger gnaws

My stomach,” whispered Friar Yves.

“If I,” he sighed, “could only gain,

Like yonder spring, an inner source

Of life, and need not dew or rain

Of human love, or human friends,

And thus accomplish my soul's ends

Within myself! No,” said the friar;

“There is one water and one fire;

There is one Spirit, which is God.

And what are we but streams and springs

Through which He takes His wanderings?

Lord, I am weak, I am afraid;

Show me the way!” the friar prayed.

“Where do I flow and to what end?

Am I of Thee, or do I blend

Hereafter with Thee?”

Yves heard,

While praying, sounds as when the sod

Teems with a swarm of insect things.

He dropped his halberd to look down,

And then his waking vision blurred,

As one before a light will frown.

His inner ear was caught and stirred

By voices; then the chestnut tree

Became a step beside a throne.

Breathless he lay and fearfully,

While on his brain a vision shone.

Said a Great Voice of sweetest tone:

“The time has come when I must take

The form of man for mankind's sake.

This drama is played long enough

By creatures who have naught of me,

Save what comes up from foam of the sea

To crawling moss or swimming weeds,

At last to man. From heaven in flame,

Pure, whole, and vital, down I fly,

And take a mortal's form and name,

And labor for the race's needs.”

Then Friar Yves dreamed the sky

Flushed like a bride's face rosily,

And shot to lightning from its bloom.

The world leaped like a babe in the womb,

And choral voices from heaven's cope

Circled the earth like singing stars:

“O wondrous hope, O sweetest hope,

O passion realized at last;

O end of hunger, fear, and wars,

O victory over the bottomless, vast

Valley of Death!”

A silence fell,

Broke by the voice of Gabriel:

“Music may follow this, O Lord!

Music I hear; I hear discord

Through ages yet to be, as well.

There will be wars because of this,

And wars will come in its despite.

It's noon on the world now; blackest night

Will follow soon. And men will miss

The meaning, Lord! There will be strife

‘ Twixt Montanist and Ebionite,

Gnostic, Mithraist, Manichean,

‘ Twixt Christian and the Saracen.

There will be war to win the place

Where you bend death to sovereign life.

Armed kings will battle for the grace

Of rulership, for power and gold

In the name of Jesus. Men will hold

Conclaves of swords to win surcease

Of doctrines of the Prince of Peace.

The seed is good, Lord, make the ground

Good for the seed you scatter round!”

Said the Great Voice of sweetest tone:

“The gardener sprays his plants and trees

To drive out lice and stop disease.

After the spraying, fruit is grown

Ruddy and plump. The shortened eyes

Of men can see this end, although

Leaves wither or a whole tree dies

From what the gardener does to grow

Apples and plums of sweeter flesh.

The gardener lives outside the tree;

The gardener knows the tree can see

What cure is needed, plans afresh

An end foreseen, and there's the will

Wherewith the gardener may fulfil

The orchard's destiny.”

So He spake.

And Friar Yves seemed to wake,

But did not wake, and only sunk

Into another dreaming state,

Wherein he saw a woman's form

Leaning against the chestnut's trunk.

Her body was virginal, white, and straight,

And glowed like a dawning, golden, warm,

Behind a robe of writhing green:

As when a rock's wall makes a screen

Whereon the crisscross reflect moves

Of circling water under the rays

Of April sunlight through the sprays

Of budding branches in willow groves —

A liquid mosaic of green and gold —

Thus was her robe.

But to behold

Her face was to forget the youth

Of her white bosom. All her hair

Was tangled serpents; she did wear

A single eye in the middle brow.

Her cheeks were shriveled, and one tooth

Stuck from shrunken gums. A bough

O'ershadowed her the while she gripped

A pail in either hand. One dripped

Clear water; one, ethereal fire.

Then to the Graia spoke the friar:

“Have mercy! Tell me your desire

And what you are?”

Then the Graia said:

“My body is Nature and my head

Is Man, and God has given me

A seeing spirit, strong and free,

Though by a single eye, as even

Man has one vision at a time.

I lift my pails up; mark them well.

With this fire I will burn up heaven,

And with this water I will quench

The flames of hell's remotest trench,

That men may work in righteousness.

Not for the fears of an after hell,

Nor for the rewards which heaven will bless

The soul with when the mountains nod

And the sun darkens, but for love

Of Man and Life, and love of God.

Now look!”

She dashed the pail of fire

Against the vault of heaven. It fell

As would a canopy of blue

Burned by a soldier's careless torch.

She dashed the water into hell,

And a great steam rose up with the smell

Of gaseous coals, which seemed to scorch

All things which on the good earth grew.

“Now,” said the Graia, “loiterer,

Awake from slumber, rise and speed

To fight for the Holy Sepulcher —

Nothing is left but Life, indeed —

I have burned heaven! I have quenched hell.”

Friar Yves no longer slept;

Friar Yves awoke and wept.