CHAPTER IX
How the Saint made Paulo aware that the birds he had painted were themselves real and living, and that they alone might be his.
AND as he went, on either hand he strewed
Crumbs fallen, holy angels! from your board.
As sower his seed, he cast them. Paulo stood
And watched in silent awe. The crumbs were stored
Within his cowl, where he would dip anew
And cast them on the hillside far abroad.
Straightway, amid the leaves, a rustling grew,
A murmuring, as when strong libeccio blows;
The pigeon stretched a languid neck; and through
The leafy trees a subdued twittering rose;
Until the sad, sweet notes were heard that ease
The stock-dove’s heart in Greccio’s still repose.
Then down from wood and field and orchard trees
The birds came flocking: to his side they clung,
About his head, his arms, his feet, his knees.
The quails came to him with their downy young,
And to him upon white and stately wing
The swans, in fleets, on the blue waters swung.
His image waned, till there remained nothing
Of him save five gold stars upon the hills,
And on the ear, like rustling of the spring,
Fell the crisp pecking of a thousand bills.
