Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: At assisi is the church
Last Line: Hangs upon that instant's choice!
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Assisi, Italy; Saints


AT Assisi is the Church
Well I know the frescoed wall:
Colours dim, Martyrs slim,
Saints you scarcely see at all,
Till the slanting sunbeams search
Through the church,
Waking life where'er they fall.

Every evening wall and vault,
Saint and city, starts and wakes,
One by one, as the sun
Broadens through the dusk, and makes
Greys and reds, and deep cobalt
Of the vault
Teem with Saints, and towers, and lakes.

High among them, clear to see,
Is one stately fresco set;
There they stand, hand in hand,
Bride and bridegroom gravely met,
Francis and Saint Poverty.
Well I see
All the Saints attending, yet.

Close their ranks by groom and bride;
Straight their faces, clear and pure;
Pale in stain, pale and plain,
Fall their ample robes demure.
Grave, these goodly friends beside,
Stands the bride,
Shorn of every earthly lure.

But, when I was there to look,
Not Saint Agnes nor Saint Clare
(Tall and faint, like a saint)
But a naked captive there
Fast my wandering fancy took;
Still I look,
Vainly, for that face and hair.

For, amid the saintly light,
From the faded fresco starts,
Fair and pale, thin and frail,
Round his neck a chain of hearts,
Love himself in mazed affright,
Out of sight
Of his altar and his darts.

Starved and naked, wan and thin,
Beautiful in his distress,
Crouches Love, whom above
All the saints in glory bless.
Here he may not enter in,
Cold and thin,
Naked, with no wedding-dress.

From the altar and the shrine
One turns round in frowning grace,
Bids the wild, naked child,
Swiftly leave the holy place.
Not for thee the bread and wine
On the shrine,
Starving god of alien race!

Yet, O Warder, was it wise
Thus to spurn him? Was it well?
Love is strong, lasting long,
Him thou canst not bind in Hell;
Scourge him, burn, he never dies,
Phoenix-wise
Riseth he unconquerable.

Only martyred Love returns
With an altered face and air;
Not a child, sweet and mild,
Fit for daily kiss and care,
But a spirit which aches and burns,
Swift he turns
All your visions to despair.

Love you cannot reach or find,
Love that aches within the soul,
Vague and faint, till the Saint
Cries, beyond his own control,
For some answer that his blind
Heart can find
But in its own vain diastole.

Ah, beware! That phantom Love
Drives to madness, and destroys.
Yet, to all Love must call,
Only we may choose the voice.
And whate'er we are or prove,
Loathe or love,
Hangs upon that instant's choice!





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