Purple and golden hung the plums; Like slaves bowed down with gems The peach-trees were; sweet-scented gums Oozed clammy from their stems. And birds of every land were there, Like flowers that sang and flew; All beauty that makes singing fair That sunny garden knew. For all together sang with throats So tuned, that the intense Colour and odour pearled the notes And passed into the sense. And as the saint drew near, he heard The birds talk, each to each, The fire-bird to the glory-bird. He understood their speech. One said: “The saint was terrified Because the hunters came.” Another said: “The bloodhounds cried, And all their eyes were flame.” Another said: “No shame to him, For mortal men are blind: They cannot see beyond the grim Into the peace behind.” Another sang: “They cannot know, Unless we give the clue, The power that waits in them below The things they are and do.” Another sang: “They never guess That deep within them stand Courage and peace and loveliness, Wisdom and skill of hand.” Another sang: “Sing, brothers! come, Make beauty in the air! The saint is shamed with martyrdom Beyond his strength to bear. “Sing, brothers! every bird that flies!” They stretcht their throats to sing, With the sweetness known in Paradise When the bells of heaven ring. “Open the doors, good saint!” they cried, Pass deeper to your soul; There is a spirit in your side That hell cannot control. “Open the doors to let him in, That beauty with the sword; The hounds are silly shapes of sin, They shrivel at a word. “Come, saint!” and as they sang, the air Shone with the shapes of flame, Bird after bright bird glittered there, Crying aloud they came. A rush of brightness and delight, White as the snow in drift, The fire-bird and the glory-bright, Most beautiful, most swift. Sweeping aloft to show the way, And singing as they flew, Many and glittering as the spray When windy seas are blue. So cheerily they rushed, so strong Their sweep was through the flowers, The saint was swept into their song And gloried in their powers. He sang, and leaped into the stream, And struggled to the shore; The garden faded like a dream, A darkness lay before. Darkness with glimmery light forlorn And quavering hounds in quest, A huntsman blowing on a horn, And lost things not at rest. He saw the huntsman’s hood show black Against the greying east; He heard him hollo to the pack And horn them to the feast. He heard the bloodhounds come to cry And settle to the scent; The black horse made the hoof-casts fly, The sparks flashed up the bent.