San Francesco Del Deserto

Two years have gone since on this desert place We landed, she and I, alone, at one; But now the wild sea-marshes have no grace, For she who made their beauty—she is gone.

That day the island in the afternoon Shone like a gem, and on its point the pine Kept steadfast watch, while in the clear lagoon Unwavering lay the shadow and the shrine.

‘How lonely,’ so she said, ‘how still, how fair! Tell me the story why they call this place St. Francis of the Desert. Silent air, And silent light sleep here, and silent space.’

‘Once in his wanderings,’ thus I told the tale, ‘St. Francis, overtaken by the night, Pushed here his bark to shore and furled his sail, And wearied, slumbered till the morning light.

‘He woke, and saw his brother, the great Sun Rise up, full-orbed, refreshed, to praise the Lord, And so began the Matins: “Is there none To sing,” he said, “responses?” At the word,

‘The nightingale, the blackbird and the thrush, And all the little fowl with dancing notes, Perched joyous on the low acacia bush, Whereby he knelt, and with full-swelling throats

‘Sang a clear service like the boys in quire; And Francis, happy as a child, gave thanks To those sweet children of the heavenly Sire— Hence grew this shrine upon the wan sea-banks.’

The story pleased her; and the low-roofed church, The bricked-paved cloister set with balsams round, The marble well, and silence-guarded porch, The cypresses that clasped the garden ground,

The soft-leaved poplars rippling in the air, The white narcissus tufts beneath the trees, And the lonely waters whispering everywhere; The blue sky filled to brimming with the breeze

That drove the red-sailed barks along the wave— All pleased, but most the silent solitude; The still Franciscan walking slow and grave, The absent life wherein no cares intrude,

Obedient, chaste and poor—alone with sea And sky and clouds and winds and God’s still voice; Unvexèd by the clamorous world, and free For worship and for work, to die or to rejoice.

‘I would not choose,’ she said, ‘this quiet life; But if my wheels were broken in the race, If, having done my best, I failed in the strife, It would be well to work in this sweet place.

‘But you and I are one—our hopes and need, Our joy and love are in the world of men; Let fall the sail and bid the rowers speed, Life calls aloud—Back to the city then.’

So spake she, bathed in sunshine and delight, Her hand upon the wooden cross whose shade Falls on the landing-place. She was so bright That when I looked on her I was afraid.

Good cause for fear—one little month and then Dark Ocean quenched her light, and now no more I see this island in the salt sea-fen, And think what joy, what love I had of yore.

’Twas summer then and glorious afternoon, And now ’tis autumn and a dusky eve; Night rushes swiftly o’er the pale lagoon, The wet seaweed and lapping waters weave

A mournful song together, and I walk Beneath the solemn cypress-trees alone; High overhead the tinkling poplars talk Of me, and wonder where my love has flown.

I cannot tell them, I have never heard; My boat has drawn unto a silent shore; But could she speak to me one little word, Or could I hope to love her evermore,

Then I might see the sun arise, and sing Matins of praise, like Francis, o’er the sea; And every happy bird upon the wing, And all the angels, would rejoice with me.