Bowed with years and pain he came back again To his father’s dwelling place. There was none to see who this tramp might be, For they knew not his bearded face. But his father said, “Give him drink and bread And a couch underneath the stair.” So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. But he might not linger there. For when night came down on the seven-hilled town, And the emperor hurried in, Saying, “Lo, I hear that a saint is near Who will cleanse us of our sin,” Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain, For his soul had fled afar, From his fleshly home he had gone to roam Where the gold-paved highways are. We who beg for bread as we daily tread Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway To the saint with the vagrant feet. Our altar light is a buttercup bright, And our shrine is a bank of sod, But still we share St. Alexis’ care, The Vagabond of God! FOLLY (For A. K. K.) What distant mountains thrill and glow Beneath our Lady Folly’s tread? Why has she left us, wise in woe, Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? We cannot love or dream or sing, We are too cynical to pray, There is no joy in anything Since Lady Folly went away. Many a knight and gentle maid, Whose glory shines from years gone by, Through ignorance was unafraid And as a fool knew how to die. Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne And broke the ranks of Hell with her, And Folly’s smile shone brightly on Christ’s plaything, Brother Juniper. Our minds are troubled and defiled By study in a weary school. O for the folly of the child! The ready courage of the fool! Lord, crush our knowledge utterly And make us humble, simple men; And cleansed of wisdom, let us see Our Lady Folly’s face again. MADNESS (For Sara Teasdale) The lonely farm, the crowded street, The palace and the slum, Give welcome to my silent feet As, bearing gifts, I come. Last night a beggar crouched alone, A ragged helpless thing; I set him on a moonbeam throne-- To-day he is a king. Last night a king in orb and crown Held court with splendid cheer; To-day he tears his purple gown And moans and shrieks in fear. Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, Not land, nor sky, nor sea, Nor love’s artillery of tears Can keep mine own from me. Serene, unchanging, ever fair, I smile with secret mirth And in a net of mine own hair I swing the captive earth. POETS Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. They shall not live who have not tasted death. They only sing who are struck dumb by God. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD