Where loving Francis shed on Umbrian ways
And fruitful slopes of sun-kissed Apennine
The benediction of his cheerful praise,
The oil and spikenard of his speech benign,
I wandered, musing how so dark an age
Had borne a heart so pitying and so sweet,
To whom all bruisèd things made pilgrimage—
All hunted things—to shelter at his feet.
And fancy, wistful-fond, began to paint
A greeting yonder in the far-off land,
And how the merciful Assisian saint
Had taken mine, rejoicing, by the hand;
Not so much glad that he was safe and whole,
As proud to welcome a companion soul.