Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/163

 And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet,
These words he heard from Christ, the crucified,
The pitying Christ his inmost soul who read,
With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread:
"Make thou a copy of My Holy World!"
Then mystic presences about him stirred;
The vision faded. At the dawn of day
Prostrate and pallid in the dusk he lay.
Was it a dream? God knows! The narrow cell
Wore the old aspect he had learned so well,
And from the crucifix upon the wall
No glory streamed illuminating all!
Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room;
And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom,
Anselmo saw upon the fretted floor
An eagle's quill that this grave legend bore:
"He works most nobly for his fellow-men
Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!"

Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well,
Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell;
For all his soul was filled with high intent,
He had no dream since its accomplishment—
To make a copy of the Holy Word,
Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard,
Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought,
His fingers guided by a single thought;
Forming each letter with the tenderest care,
With points of richest color here and there;
With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies
 Poised on gay wings o'er sprays of eglantine;
 With tangled tracery of flower and vine
 Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine;
With fading leaves that drift when summer dies,
And angels floating down the evening skies—