CHAPTER VII
How the Saint understood that Paulo deemed his to be but a small desire, yet shewed him how great a one it was in deed.
HIS nearing form grew slowly, till he staid
His steps by Paulo’s side; then, grave and tender,
Upon his heart a gentle hand he laid.
Nought could he feel there save the quivering stir
Of beating wings. Again St. Francis spake:
‘Oh, brother Paulo, God’s own pensioner,
Little it is to thee that thou shouldst take
From these their freedom; yet how great the wrong
To the winged bird who of his tears must make
Thy pastime. For his haunts he still will long
On green Mugnone, where, a beggar free,
He lived and paid for every grub a song.
To him, believe me, sweeter far will be
The worm, caught in the woods at break of day,
Than head of groundsel in captivity.
Leave them to go upon their airy way,
Redolent with the dew, with sunshine blest,
Singing God’s praise, this lovely month of May.
Leave to my minor brothers my bequest,
The life of solitude, the hills to roam,
The tiny cell among the leaves for rest,
The spacious cloister with its airy dome.’
