St. Yves' Poor

Jeffik was there, and Matthieu, and brown Bran, Warped in old wars and babbling of the sword, And Jennedik, a white rose pinched and paled With the world's frosts, and many more beside, Lamed, rheumed and palsied, aged, impotent Of all but hunger and blind lifted hands. I set the doors wide at the given hour, Took the great baskets piled with bread, the fish Yet silvered of the sea, the curds of milk, And called them Brethren, brake and blest and gave.

For O, my Lord, the house dove knows her nest Above my window builded from the rain; In the brown mere the heron finds her rest, But these shall seek in vain. And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold her wing, The curlew seek the long lift of the seas, The wild swan sleep amid his journeying,— There is no rest for these. Thy dead and sheltered; housed and warmed they wait Under the golden fern, the falling foam; But these, Thy living, wander desolate And have not any home.

I called them Brethren, brake and blest and gave. Old Jeffik had her withered hand to show, Young Jannedik had dreamed of death, and Bran Would tell me wonders wrought on fields of war, When Michael and his warriors rode the storm, And all the heavens were thrilled with clanging spears; Ah, God! my poor, my poor!—Till there came one Wrapped in foul rags, who caught me by the robe, And pleaded, "Bread, my father!"

In his hand I laid the last loaf of the daily dole, Saw on the palm a red wound like a star, And bade him, "Let me bind it."

"These my wounds," He answered softly, "daily dost thou bind." And I, "My son, I have not seen thy face. But thy bruised feet have trodden on my heart. I will get water for thee."

"These my hurts," Again he answered, "daily dost thou wash." And I once more, "My son, I know thee not, But the bleak wind blows bitter from the sea, And even the gorse is perished. Rest thou here." And he again, "My rest is in thy heart. I take from thee as I have given to thee. Dost thou not know Me, Breton?"

I,—"My Lord!"— A scent of lilies on the cold sea-wind, A thin white blaze of wings, a face of flame Over the gateway, and the vision passed, Over there were only Matthieu and brown Bran, And the young girl, the foam-white Jannedik, Wondering to see their father rapt from them, And Jeffik weeping o'er her withered hand.