The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

And what more would ye hear of him? Meseems
It passes mind of man to picture well
His second sojourn in that land; yet gleams
There might be thence, if one had heart to tell,
In sleepless nights, of horrors passing hell,
Of joys by which our joys are misery;
But hopeless both, if such a thing may be.

324

Let us be silent then, but hear at least
What the old tale tells: that the morrow morn
The Pope was busy at the Holy Feast;
Then through the ancient solemn streets was borne,
Where stood the folk as thick as summer corn;
Then o'er their bowed heads and their weeping stilled,
With his small blessing voice the hushed air thrilled:

And, many other things being said and done,
Unto his own house came back at the last,
And in his quiet garden walked alone
Pondering, his mind perplexed and overcast,
Not with the hurry of the day late past;
Rather that haggard face, those hopeless eyes,
Despite himself would still before him rise.

The shadows fell their longest; a great flood
Of golden light glowed through the peaceful place;
The Pope sat down; the staff of olive-wood
Cursed, as it were, at ending of that case,
Fell from him as he turned his weary face
Unto the western glory: close beside
A babbling conduit from its stone did glide.

Well sang the birds; all was so sweet and fair,
It melted those dull troublous thoughts within
The old man's heart, transmuted all his care
Into a loving peace right hard to win:
He murmured in his faded voice and thin,
Mid the full sweetness of the spring: “Would God
That man and I this peace together trod!

“For he mayhap had things to say to me
He could not say then, knowing not what I was;
And I—God wot that there are things I see,
To tell of; if the words my lips would pass:
Things dimly seen, indeed, as in a glass—
Woe's me! for who shall help me if I erred!
Yet God, I deemed, had given me that last word.

325

“O God, if I have done Thee deadly wrong,
And lost a soul Thou wouldst have saved and blessed,
Yet other words Thou knowest were on my tongue,
When 'twixt that soul and mine Thine image pressed:
Thou wilt remember this and give him rest!
And as for me, Thou knowest I fear Thee nought,
Since this my body and soul Thine own hand wrought.”

The sun was sunken now, the west was red,
And still the birds poured forth their melody,
A marvellous scent about him seemed to spread,
Mid strange new bliss the tears his eyes drew nigh;
He smiled and said: “Too old to weep am I;
Unless the very end be drawing near,
And unimagined sounds I soon shall hear.

“And yet, before I die, I needs must go
Back to my house, and try if I may write,
For there are some things left for me to do,
Ere my face glow with that ineffable light.”
He moved and stooped down for his staff; still bright
The sky was, as he cast his eyes adown,
And his hand sought the well-worn wood and brown.

With a great cry he sprang up; in his hand
He held against the sky a wondrous thing,
That might have been the bright archangel's wand,
Who brought to Mary that fair summoning;
For lo, in God's unfaltering timeless spring,
Summer, and autumn, had that dry rod been,
And from its barrenness the leaves sprang green,

And on its barrenness grew wondrous flowers,
That earth knew not; and on its barrenness
Hung the ripe fruit of heaven's unmeasured hours;
And with strange scent the soft dusk did it bless,
And glowed with fair light as earth's light grew less,—
Yea, and its gleam the old man's face did reach,
Too glad for smiles, or tears, or any speech.

326

Who seeth such things and liveth? That high-tide
The Pope was missed from throne and chapel-stall,
And when his frightened people sought him wide,
They found him lying by the garden wall,
Set out on that last pilgrimage of all,
Grasping his staff—“and surely,” all folk said,
“None ever saw such joy on visage dead.”