Rise up, full-orbed, refreshed, to praise the Lord,
And so began the Matins: “Is there none
To sing,” he said, “responses?” At the word,
‘The nightingale, the blackbird and the thrush,
And all the little fowl with dancing notes,
Perched joyous on the low acacia bush,
Whereby he knelt, and with full-swelling throats
‘Sang a clear service like the boys in quire;
And Francis, happy as a child, gave thanks
To those sweet children of the heavenly Sire—