FROM “THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS.”
The Poor One of Assisi trod one day
Bevagna’s road, and, praying by the way—
His heart seraphic, like the choirs above,
Filled with the sweetness born of heavenly love—
Lifting his eyes, that loved the earth’s fair face,
He saw, thick gathered in a bosky place,
A host of birds that flitted to and fro,
Filling the boughs with twittering murmur low.
“Wait here, my brothers,” fell in gentle speech;