AT Assisi is the Church Well I know the frescoed wall: Colours dim, Martyrs slim, Saints you scarcely see at all, Till the slanting sunbeams search Through the church, Waking life where'er they fall. Every evening wall and vault, Saint and city, starts and wakes, One by one, as the sun Broadens through the dusk, and makes Greys and reds, and deep cobalt Of the vault Teem with Saints, and towers, and lakes. High among them, clear to see, Is one stately fresco set; There they stand, hand in hand, Bride and bridegroom gravely met, Francis and Saint Poverty. Well I see All the Saints attending, yet. Close their ranks by groom and bride; Straight their faces, clear and pure; Pale in stain, pale and plain, Fall their ample robes demure. Grave, these goodly friends beside, Stands the bride, Shorn of every earthly lure. But, when I was there to look, Not Saint Agnes nor Saint Clare (Tall and faint, like a saint) But a naked captive there Fast my wandering fancy took; Still I look, Vainly, for that face and hair. For, amid the saintly light, From the faded fresco starts, Fair and pale, thin and frail, Round his neck a chain of hearts, Love himself in mazed affright, Out of sight Of his altar and his darts. Starved and naked, wan and thin, Beautiful in his distress, Crouches Love, whom above All the saints in glory bless. Here he may not enter in, Cold and thin, Naked, with no wedding-dress. From the altar and the shrine One turns round in frowning grace, Bids the wild, naked child, Swiftly leave the holy place. Not for thee the bread and wine On the shrine, Starving god of alien race! Yet, O Warder, was it wise Thus to spurn him? Was it well? Love is strong, lasting long, Him thou canst not bind in Hell; Scourge him, burn, he never dies, Phoenix-wise Riseth he unconquerable. Only martyred Love returns With an altered face and air; Not a child, sweet and mild, Fit for daily kiss and care, But a spirit which aches and burns, Swift he turns All your visions to despair. Love you cannot reach or find, Love that aches within the soul, Vague and faint, till the Saint Cries, beyond his own control, For some answer that his blind Heart can find But in its own vain diastole. Ah, beware! That phantom Love Drives to madness, and destroys. Yet, to all Love must call, Only we may choose the voice. And whate'er we are or prove, Loathe or love, Hangs upon that instant's choice! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EXPOSED NEST by ROBERT FROST A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS by RUDYARD KIPLING ON LOOKING INTO GOLDING'S OVID by STEVE SCAFIDI JR. FACADE: 17. DARK SONG by EDITH SITWELL EXODUS 15. SONG OF ISRAEL FOR THE OVERTHROW OF EGYPT IN THE RED SEA by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE ENTANGLEMENT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON MR. CRUIKSHANK OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH by ROBERT BURNS |