TO ST. FRANCIS OF ASSIST

New Zealand Tablet, 19 September 1918, Page 23

TO ST. FRANCIS OF ASSIST

When sinners with broken wailing Clutched at thy strong brown hands, Didst think of thy briar budding, trailing, And the long, wet clover lands? Did'st walk, my saint, from the stony city, Seeking to cleanse its stain, Thy kin, the muttering winds of pity, Thy brother, God's fine rain? These were thy peace a yellow tree, And a wild clean air, A dreamy bird, a small gold bee, Climbing the lily's stair. I have no cowl of brown, no word, Nor robe, nor cord of grace, Yet have I loved the yellow tree, the bird, And all the sweet-briar place. —E. D