
Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul released from pain
Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard: it was to him
An emblem of the seraphim
The upward motion of fire
The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assissi's convent gate
The bird's, God's poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood
Come flocking for their dole of food
"O brother birds," Francis said,
"Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone today
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me."
"Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And who careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care!"
With flutter of soft wings and songs
Together rose the feathered throngs,
And singing scattered far apart;
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood
His homily had understood;
He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.
-Anonymous