“The peaks of Apennine we knew By heart—the many-citied land Where-through the infant Tiber drew A thousand streams in silver band, Filled with the murmur of the pines That told the olives and the vines They heard the sea on either hand. But, kindled on its lofty cape, A light-tower to that inland coast O’er waves of greenwood, corn, and grape, What object charmed us most? “Assisi seated in the sun! All round from Monte Sole’s height The insistent fascination Of its white walls enthralled our sight. And moon and starlight on its slope Showed but a dimmer heliotrope. We watched it many a mellow night: Once when a warrior comet came, And flashed, in high heaven opposite, A sheathless sword of pallid flame. Drawn from out the infinite. “To sweet St. Francis’ native town, Alas! we made no pilgrimage; Nor to St. Mary’s, lower down, His Portiuncula hermitage. We knew but by its star-like shine The splendors of Assisi’s shrine, In mystic triple stage on stage. It only asked one summer’s day— How strange it seems in you and me!— That narrow vale of Umbria Made severance like the sea.” O gentle wife! I cannot tell To wistful eyes of retrospect What _dolce far niente’s_ spell, In that midsummer, caused neglect; What imp, procrastination hight, Seduced us when we meant no slight. In life, all paradox and defect, Easy is difficult—the friend Next door to visit—duties small, To be done any day, that end In not being done at all. “How can this trite philosophy Console me in my great regret?” Nay, love, look not so tearfully, And we will find some comfort yet. What figure, think you, in those streets The gentle, loving youth repeats, Singing his gay French canzonet? Doth either temple’s sumptuous pride Suit stone and crust for bed and board, And bridegroom joyful in his bride— The poverty of our Lord? O brown serge holier than the cope! Was mystery veiled in long-sleeved gown? And awful was his girdle-rope? Were skirts that swept his ankles brown? Bore he, in hands and feet and side, The five wounds of the Crucified? Did high God send his seraph down, On the lone mount, to imprint such sign? His brethren wondered, overawed; Yet not even this made more divine That sweet-souled man of God!