ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE

Antonio loved the Lady Clare.

He caught her to him on the stair

And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,

And drew her lips in his, and drew

Her soul out like a torch's flare.

Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round;

Her senses in a vortex swound.

She tore him loose and turned around,

And reached her chamber in a bound

Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue.

She closed the door and turned the lock,

Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock.

She reeled as drunken from the shock.

Before her eyes the devils skipped,

She thought she heard the devils mock.

For had her soul not been as pure

As sifted snow, could she endure

Antonio's passion and be sure

Against his passion's strength and lure?

Lean fears along her wonder slipped.

Outside she heard a drunkard call,

She heard a beggar against the wall

Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall

Struck through the riot like a sword,

And gashed the midnight's festival.

She watched the city through the pane,

The old Silenus half insane,

The idiot crowd that drags its chain —

And then she heard the bells again,

And heard the voices with the word:

Ecco il santo! Up the street

There was the sound of running feet

From closing door and window seat,

And all the crowd turned on its way

The Saint of Poverty to greet.

He passed. And then a circling thrill,

As water troubled which was still,

Went through her body like a chill,

Who of Antonio thought until

She heard the Saint begin to pray.

And then she turned into the room

Her soul was cloven through with doom,

Treading the softness and the gloom

Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool,

And China's magical perfume.

She sickened from the vases hued

In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd

Twined dragon shapes and figures nude,

And tapestries that showed a brood

Of leopards by a pool!

Candles of wax she lit before

A pier glass standing from the floor;

Up to the ceiling, off she tore

With eager hands her jewels, then

The silken vesture which she wore.

Her little breasts so round to see

Were budded like the peony.

Her arms were white as ivory,

And all her sunny hair lay free

As marigold or celandine.

Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase

Of crackled turquoise, in her face

Was memory of the mad embrace

Antonio gave her on the stair,

And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace.

Like pigeon blood her lips were red.

She clasped her bands above her head.

Under her arms the waxlight shed

Delicate halos where was spread

The downy growth of hair.

Such sudden sin the virgin knew

She quenched the tapers as she blew

Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw

Herself in tears upon her knees,

And round her couch the curtain drew.

She called upon St. Francis’ name,

Feeling Antonio's passion maim

Her body with his passion's flame

To save her, save her from the shame

Of fancies such as these!

“Go by mad life and old pursuits,

The wine cup and the golden fruits,

The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes,

I would praise God forevermore

With harps of gold and silver lutes.”

She stripped the velvet from her couch

Her broken spirit to avouch.

She saw the devils slink and slouch,

And passion like a leopard crouch

Half mirrored on the polished floor.

Next day she found the saint and said:

I would be God's bride, I would wed

Poverty and I would eat the bread

That you for anchorites prepare,

For my soul's sake I am in dread.

Go then, said Francis, nothing loth,

Put off this gown of green snake cloth,

Put on one somber as a moth,

Then come to me and make your troth

And I will clip your golden hair.

She went and came. But still there lay,

A gem she did not put away,

A locket twixt her breasts, all gay

In shimmering pearls and tints of blue,

And inlay work of fruit and spray.

St. Francis felt it as he slipped

His hand across her breast and whipped

Her golden tresses ere he clipped —

He closed his eyes then as he gripped

The shears, plunged the shears through.

The waterfall of living gold.

The locks fell to the floor and rolled,

And curled like serpents which unfold.

And there sat Lady Clare despoiled.

Of worldly glory manifold.

She thrilled to feel him take and hide

The locket from her breast, a tide

Of passion caught them side by side.

He was the bridegroom, she the bride —

Their flesh but not their spirits foiled.

Thus was the Lady Clare debased

To sack cloth and around her waist

A rope the jeweled belt replaced.

Her feet made free of silken hose

Naked in wooden sandals cased

Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then

They housed her in St. Damian

And here she prayed for poor women

And here St. Francis sought her when

His faith sank under earthly woes.

Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme

And took to wine and got the lime

Of hatred on his soul, in time

Grew healed though left a little lame,

And laughed about it in his prime;

When he could see with crystal eyes

That love is a winged thing which flies;

Some break the wings, some let them rise

From earth like God's dove to the skies

Diffused in heavenly flame.