  Up soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a wingÈd 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 light, the heat, the heart’s desire. Around Assisi’s convent gate The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood Came flocking for their dole of food. “O brother birds,” St. Francis said, “Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day 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. “O, 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 careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!” With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, 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. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. |
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