 | Words by the Wayside |  |
I
Not thus should he be sepulchred, not thus—
Almsman of God, and spouse of Poverty—
Where fane crowns fane, a pillared praise on high,
By Masters of renown made glorious.
So men of old revered him: but to us
Strange and unmeet it seems that he should lie
Where day by day with travel-jaded eye
Crowds turn to gaze, and critic-tongues discuss.
Almsman of God, and spouse of Poverty—
Where fane crowns fane, a pillared praise on high,
By Masters of renown made glorious.
So men of old revered him: but to us
Strange and unmeet it seems that he should lie
Where day by day with travel-jaded eye
Crowds turn to gaze, and critic-tongues discuss.
For pomp and splendour irked him: a bare shrine
Rude and rock-bedded—the blue dome above—
Sufficed his soul for worship: he did love
To talk with birds and flowers, nor seldom trod
Far from man's haunt the cloud-cowled Apennine,
To be alone with God—alone with God.
Rude and rock-bedded—the blue dome above—
Sufficed his soul for worship: he did love
To talk with birds and flowers, nor seldom trod
Far from man's haunt the cloud-cowled Apennine,
To be alone with God—alone with God.
| Words by the Wayside | |