 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
7
On the Way to Rivo Torto
When on that April day the prophet turned
His back on all that he had loved so well
—Mother and home, and through the forest glade,
Sought, by the road the Roman soldiers made,
That coiling stream beside the leper's cell,
For him no young corn grew—no poppies burned.
His back on all that he had loved so well
—Mother and home, and through the forest glade,
Sought, by the road the Roman soldiers made,
That coiling stream beside the leper's cell,
For him no young corn grew—no poppies burned.
Yet had he found life's surest anodyne,
The love of all earth's common brotherhood,
And in his hand he bore most precious seed
To be the bread whereon true souls may feed
—Sense of a spirit in earth and air and wood
—And in man's heart the power to be divine.
The love of all earth's common brotherhood,
And in his hand he bore most precious seed
To be the bread whereon true souls may feed
—Sense of a spirit in earth and air and wood
—And in man's heart the power to be divine.
And we who wander through Mojano's gate,
Or at the cross-way talk with brother Giles,
Then forward go beneath the shadowy elms,
Feel the dark shame that well nigh overwhelms,
To think, though still St. Francis on us smiles,
We will not taste the heavenly food he ate.
Or at the cross-way talk with brother Giles,
Then forward go beneath the shadowy elms,
Feel the dark shame that well nigh overwhelms,
To think, though still St. Francis on us smiles,
We will not taste the heavenly food he ate.
8
Ah! would to God that through the rustling corn
Some leper from Saint Madelena's home
Would cry for pity, so that we might prove
At least there lives on earth St. Francis' love,
At least his great compassion still may come
To succour outcast sorrowing ones forlorn.
Some leper from Saint Madelena's home
Would cry for pity, so that we might prove
At least there lives on earth St. Francis' love,
At least his great compassion still may come
To succour outcast sorrowing ones forlorn.
Now have we reached the stable by the well,
Have knelt a moment in the neighbouring shrine,
But no one asks our cloak, we are full fed
No need to seek for bits of broken bread,
And when the stars to-night above us shine,
We shall not share with beasts a leper's cell.
Have knelt a moment in the neighbouring shrine,
But no one asks our cloak, we are full fed
No need to seek for bits of broken bread,
And when the stars to-night above us shine,
We shall not share with beasts a leper's cell.
So, wrapt in thought, to home we turn our face
Cool towards the sunset over rippling corn,
Through silver olives, vine-clad mulberries,
Comes the soft air of eve, and as it flies
I hear a voice, ‘Behold! ye must be born,
Born once again, to find St. Francis' grace.’
Cool towards the sunset over rippling corn,
Through silver olives, vine-clad mulberries,
Comes the soft air of eve, and as it flies
I hear a voice, ‘Behold! ye must be born,
Born once again, to find St. Francis' grace.’
Then through the elms I hear a little bell,
Not that great thunderer—St. Francesco's pride,
Nor the deep bell beneath the purple dome
That masks and mocks the ‘Little Portion's’ home,
A bell that speaks as if an angel cried,
The bell that rings where Clara used to dwell.
Not that great thunderer—St. Francesco's pride,
Nor the deep bell beneath the purple dome
That masks and mocks the ‘Little Portion's’ home,
A bell that speaks as if an angel cried,
The bell that rings where Clara used to dwell.
9
And as it rings, beside a rose in flower,
The sweet wild rose that touches every heart,
I see a grey monk kneeling in the way;
He prays, and knows St. Clara too will pray,
Then rises blest, and never more apart,
Walks with her soul towards heaven in peace and power.
The sweet wild rose that touches every heart,
I see a grey monk kneeling in the way;
He prays, and knows St. Clara too will pray,
Then rises blest, and never more apart,
Walks with her soul towards heaven in peace and power.
The dream has vanished, but in all the plain
Henceforth there is no path so dedicate
To love as this, where moving up and down
To beg for alms in old Assisi's town
Called by the bell above St. Damien's gate,
St. Francis quite forgot his life-long pain.
Henceforth there is no path so dedicate
To love as this, where moving up and down
To beg for alms in old Assisi's town
Called by the bell above St. Damien's gate,
St. Francis quite forgot his life-long pain.
And still each time with blessing in the air
For those who pass down Rivo Torto's way
The tinkling bell of Damien's church may sound,
There on his knees St. Francis will be found
As happy as a lover, sworn to pray
And work with one God gave him, Sister Clare.
For those who pass down Rivo Torto's way
The tinkling bell of Damien's church may sound,
There on his knees St. Francis will be found
As happy as a lover, sworn to pray
And work with one God gave him, Sister Clare.
| Poems at Home and Abroad | |