Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
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THE CAPUCIN OF ROME |
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 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
57
THE CAPUCIN OF ROME
Only a basket for fruits or bread
And the bits you divide with your dog, which you
Had left from your dinner. The round year through
He never once smiles. He bends his head
To the scorn of men. He gives the road
To the grave ass groaning beneath his load.
He is ever alone. Lo! never a hand
Is laid in his hand through the whole wide land,
Save when a man dies, and he shrives him home.
And that is the Capucin monk of Rome.
And the bits you divide with your dog, which you
Had left from your dinner. The round year through
He never once smiles. He bends his head
To the scorn of men. He gives the road
To the grave ass groaning beneath his load.
He is ever alone. Lo! never a hand
Is laid in his hand through the whole wide land,
Save when a man dies, and he shrives him home.
And that is the Capucin monk of Rome.
He coughs, he is hump'd, and he hobbles about
In sandals of wood. Then a hempen cord
Girdles his loathsome gown. Abhorr'd!
Ay, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast out.
One gown in three years! and—bah! how he smells!
He slept last night in his coffin of stone,
This monk that coughs, this skin and bone,
This living dead corpse from the damp, cold cells,—
Go ye where the Pincian, half-level'd down,
Slopes slow to the south. These men in brown
Have a monkery there, quaint, builded of stone;
And, living or dead, 'tis the brown men's home,—
These dead brown monks who are living in Rome!
In sandals of wood. Then a hempen cord
Girdles his loathsome gown. Abhorr'd!
Ay, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast out.
One gown in three years! and—bah! how he smells!
He slept last night in his coffin of stone,
This monk that coughs, this skin and bone,
This living dead corpse from the damp, cold cells,—
Go ye where the Pincian, half-level'd down,
Slopes slow to the south. These men in brown
Have a monkery there, quaint, builded of stone;
And, living or dead, 'tis the brown men's home,—
These dead brown monks who are living in Rome!
You will hear wood sandals on the sanded floor;
A cough, then the lift of a latch, then the door
Groans open, and—horror! Four walls of stone
All gorgeous with flowers and frescoes of bone!
There are bones in the corners and bones on the wall;
And he barks like a dog that watches his bone,
This monk in brown from his bed of stone—
He barks, and he coughs, and that is all.
At last he will cough as if up from his cell;
Then strut with considerable pride about,
And lead through his blossoms of bone, and smell
Their odors; then talk, as he points them out,
Of the virtues and deeds of the gents who wore
The respective bones but the year before.
A cough, then the lift of a latch, then the door
58
All gorgeous with flowers and frescoes of bone!
There are bones in the corners and bones on the wall;
And he barks like a dog that watches his bone,
This monk in brown from his bed of stone—
He barks, and he coughs, and that is all.
At last he will cough as if up from his cell;
Then strut with considerable pride about,
And lead through his blossoms of bone, and smell
Their odors; then talk, as he points them out,
Of the virtues and deeds of the gents who wore
The respective bones but the year before.
Then he thaws at last, ere the bones are through,
And talks right well as he turns them about
And stirs up a most unsavory smell;
Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, till you
Wish them, as they are, no doubt, in—well,
A very deep well. ... And that may be why,
As he shows you the door and bows good-by,
That he bows so low for a franc or two,
To shrive their souls and to get them out—
These bony brown men who have their home,
Dead or alive, in their cells at Rome.
And talks right well as he turns them about
And stirs up a most unsavory smell;
Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, till you
Wish them, as they are, no doubt, in—well,
A very deep well. ... And that may be why,
As he shows you the door and bows good-by,
That he bows so low for a franc or two,
To shrive their souls and to get them out—
These bony brown men who have their home,
Dead or alive, in their cells at Rome.
What good does he do in the world? Ah! well,
Now that is a puzzler. ... But, listen! He prays.
His life is the fast of the forty days.
He seeks the despised; he divides the bread
That he begg'd on his knees, does this old shave-head.
And then, when the thief and the beggar fell!
And then, when the terrible plague came down,
Christ! how we cried to these men in brown
When other men fled! Ah, who then was seen
Stand firm to the death like the Capucin?
Now that is a puzzler. ... But, listen! He prays.
His life is the fast of the forty days.
He seeks the despised; he divides the bread
That he begg'd on his knees, does this old shave-head.
59
And then, when the terrible plague came down,
Christ! how we cried to these men in brown
When other men fled! Ah, who then was seen
Stand firm to the death like the Capucin?
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |