Thursday, November 14, 2019
The Sermon of Francis
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a wing'ed prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.
Saint Francis heard; it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
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 the dole of food.
"O brother birds," Saint 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.
"O doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your cromson 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,
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.