In the tough grim talk of the monkish days
They hammered and slashed about,—
Dry husks of logic,—old scraps of creed,—
And the cold gray dreams of doubt,—
And whether Just or Justified
Was the Church's mystic Head,—
And whether the Bread was changed to God,
Or God became the Bread
But of human hearts outside their walls
They never paused to dream,
And they never thought of the love of God
That smiled in the twilight gleam.
II.
As these three monks went bickering on
By the foot of a spreading tree,
Out from its heart of verdurous gloom
A song burst wild and free,—
A wordless carol of life and love,
Of nature free and wild;
And the three monks paused in the evening shade
Looked up at each other and smiled.
And tender and gay the bird sang on,
And cooed and whistled and trilled,
And the wasteful wealth of life and love
From his happy heart was spilled.
The song had power on the grim old monks
In the light of the rosy skies;
And as they listened the years rolled back,
And tears came into their eyes.
The years rolled back and they were young,
With the hearts and hopes of men,
They plucked the daisies and kissed the girls
Of dear dead summers again.