“Unto this multitude needs must I preach:
“Here by the wayside, good Masseo, bide
Till I these little birds have satisfied.”
Into the field he passed, the flowers among,
Where, on the bending stems, the songsters swung.
Gathered the wingèd things about his feet,
Dropped from the boughs amid the grasses sweet:
Reverent dropt down to listen to God’s word,
Silenced their song that his Poor One be heard.
Touching with his gray robe their eager wings,