(_Le mauvais moine_)
Upon the tall old cloister walls there were
Some painted frescoes showing Truth; so we,
Seeing them thus so holy and so fair,
Might for a space forget austerity.
For when the Lord Christ's seeds were blossoming,
Full many a simple, pious brother found
Death but a painted phantom with no sting,
--And took for studio a burial-ground.
But my soul is a sepulchre, where I,
A false Franciscan, dwell eternally,
And no walls glow with pictured mysteries.
When shall I rise from living death, to take
My pain as rich material, and make
Work for my hands, with pleasure for mine eyes?