As over incense-laden air Stole winter twilight, soft and dim, The folk arose from their last prayer— When hark, an ancient hymn! Round yon great pillar, circlewise, The singers stand up, two and two— Small lint-haired girls from whose young eyes The gray sea looks at you. Now heavenward the pure music wins With cadence soft and silvery beat: In flutes and subtile violins Are harmonies less sweet. It is a chant with plaintive ring, And rhymes and refrains old and quaint: 'Oh Monseigneur Saint Jacques,' they sing, And 'Oh Assisi's Saint.' Through deepening dusk one just can see The little white-capped heads that move In time to lines turned rhythmically And starred with names of love. Bred in no gentle silken ease, Trained to expect no splendid fate, They are but pleasant children these, Of very mean estate. Nay, is that true? To-night perhaps Unworldlier eyes had well discerned Among those little gleaming caps An aureole that burned. For once 'twas thought the Gates of Pearl Best opened to the poor that trod The path of the meek peasant girl Who bore the Son of God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO W. HOHENZOLLERN: A PLEA by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE WATERS OF H. BAPTISME by JOSEPH BEAUMONT DIRGE FOR A YOUNG MAIDEN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES SCARECROW by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN |