Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
The Sermon of St. Francis
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)U
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
The light, the heat, the heart’s desire.
The birds, God’s poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood
Came flocking for their dole of food.
“Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care!”
Together rose the feathered throngs,
And singing scattered far apart;
Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart.
His homily had understood;
He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.