Father Benedict— (After a long look at the Abbot.)
When I rode out of town the sun's red car
Stood hub-deep in the western ocean's sand.
I met the morning on the mountain tops
Fresh dropt from heaven, with one golden wing
Bright on the pines, the other softly sheathed
In valley shadows thinning round her plumes.
The night I spent far back among the hills.
For three hours in the darkness on the road
I staked my life upon the ass' step
And ass and life upon these slips of rue.
(He thrusts his switch into the narrow necked diotas, and drawing it out, feels the end.)
If any manna fell upon the heights
The Devil must have harvested the flakes:
I found none on the way.
Abbot— I fear the fiend
Has washed it down with our good Tuscan wine
And dressed Hell's tables with the golden cups
The Abbot Boldi sent from Aosta.
The tide is out and the Italian moon
Has slipped her sphere that ruled the purple flood.
These are the empty shells that held the sea.
(Pierre enters, carrying a flagon and a silver cup. Simon follows him.)
Have something, Benedict.
Father Benedict— Ah, you are good.
Abbot—What could have drawn you back among the hills
When every pass was choked with drizzling dag?
Father Benedict—I'm like a desert.
Rene—(To Basil.) And there flows the Nile.