Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme
More than for theses of the schools;
And sighed, and took up his burden so,
Vowed to the Muses, for weal or woe.
At matins he sat, the book on his knees,
But his thoughts were wandering far away;
And chanted the evening litanies
Watching the roseate skies grow gray,
Watching the brightening starry host
Flame like the tongues at Pentecost.