Flame on the poppies and a gray mist weaves
shaken silver ashes on the young olive leaves;
St. Francis’ joy is singing, singing on its lyre,
hymn to its Maker, song of the fire.

Sun on the petals and a petal is the sun,
lucent, tawny petal when Assisi’s day is done;
Francis’ heart goes singing, canticle or hymn,
hymn to the flame-gold along Assisi’s rim.

White on the olive trees a full moon burns,
white through the narrow streets, white on the ferns;
Francis’ lips are singing to an old French tune
song to the fire, fire on the moon.

But out beyond Assisi in the old Chapter House,
home alike of brethren and the gray field mouse,
though he cut the silken kindling, strand on strand,
pale, golden-yellow, brand on brand,

though his eyes gave benediction to the slender little
pyre,
the slender, flaming brightness of the white-gold fire,
there was not a breath of singing, not a single burning word,

though the brethren listened silent, not a word was
           heard

for the birth of the golden flame, burning, flaming

          yet,

heaped with tender giving, heaped without regret,
the satin-silken kindling of the soft shining hair,
the wonder-woven kindling of the hair of Clare.