CHAPTER VI
How St. Francis came down to Paulo by the paths of the fair landscape he had painted and did reprove him.
SUCH was the humble plaint that mutely stirr’d
Within his heart, and yet from heaven on high
The son of Pietro Bernardone heard.
And, lo! St. Francis down the hill draw nigh,
Gliding among the vines and orchard trees;
No blade was bent as he trod lightly by.
Barefoot he was, and clad in homely frieze.
‘Oh, naughty Paulo, brother mine,’ he cried,
While yet afar: ‘doth it no longer please
Thee, foolish one, to eat the crust of bread
By mountain springs, in Poverty’s own fold,
Who dwells on high, by God companioned?
Crumbs from the angels’ table dost thou hold
In scorn, my brother, coveting to bear
Pallet and staff and shoes, silver and gold?
Be poor and sinless, Paulo Ucello, fare
Even as these, thy brethren of the wood,
Nor ask for gold, nor yet two coats to wear:
Thine own, brown as the fallen leaf, is good
Enough; such as thy sainted sister wise,
The lark, wears; she who pecks two grains of food
On earth, then, singing, soars into the skies.’
