St. Francis And Lady Clare

    Antonio loved the Lady Clare.
    He caught her to him on the stair
    And pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,
    And drew her lips in his, and drew
    Her soul out like a torch's flare.
    Her breath came quick, her blood swirled round;
    Her senses in a vortex swound.
    She tore him loose and turned around,
    And reached her chamber in a bound
    Her cheeks turned to a poppy's hue.

    She closed the door and turned the lock,
    Her breasts and flesh were turned to rock.
    She reeled as drunken from the shock.
    Before her eyes the devils skipped,
    She thought she heard the devils mock.
    For had her soul not been as pure
    As sifted snow, could she endure
    Antonio's passion and be sure
    Against his passion's strength and lure?
    Lean fears along her wonder slipped.

    Outside she heard a drunkard call,
    She heard a beggar against the wall
    Shaking his cup, a harlot's squall
    Struck through the riot like a sword,
    And gashed the midnight's festival.
    She watched the city through the pane,
    The old Silenus half insane,
    The idiot crowd that drags its chain -
    And then she heard the bells again,
    And heard the voices with the word:

    Ecco il santo! Up the street
    There was the sound of running feet
    From closing door and window seat,
    And all the crowd turned on its way
    The Saint of Poverty to greet.
    He passed. And then a circling thrill,
    As water troubled which was still,
    Went through her body like a chill,
    Who of Antonio thought until
    She heard the Saint begin to pray.

    And then she turned into the room
    Her soul was cloven through with doom,
    Treading the softness and the gloom
    Of Asia's silk and Persia's wool,
    And China's magical perfume.
    She sickened from the vases hued
    In corals, yellows, greens, the lewd
    Twined dragon shapes and figures nude,
    And tapestries that showed a brood
    Of leopards by a pool!

    Candles of wax she lit before
    A pier glass standing from the floor;
    Up to the ceiling, off she tore
    With eager hands her jewels, then
    The silken vesture which she wore.
    Her little breasts so round to see
    Were budded like the peony.
    Her arms were white as ivory,
    And all her sunny hair lay free
    As marigold or celandine.

    Her blue eyes sparkled like a vase
    Of crackled turquoise, in her face
    Was memory of the mad embrace
    Antonio gave her on the stair,
    And on her cheeks a salt tear's trace.
    Like pigeon blood her lips were red.
    She clasped her bands above her head.
    Under her arms the waxlight shed
    Delicate halos where was spread
    The downy growth of hair.

    Such sudden sin the virgin knew
    She quenched the tapers as she blew
    Puff! puff! upon them, then she threw
    Herself in tears upon her knees,
    And round her couch the curtain drew.
    She called upon St. Francis' name,
    Feeling Antonio's passion maim
    Her body with his passion's flame
    To save her, save her from the shame
    Of fancies such as these!

    "Go by mad life and old pursuits,
    The wine cup and the golden fruits,
    The gilded mirrors, rosewood flutes,
    I would praise God forevermore
    With harps of gold and silver lutes."
    She stripped the velvet from her couch
    Her broken spirit to avouch.
    She saw the devils slink and slouch,
    And passion like a leopard crouch
    Half mirrored on the polished floor.

    Next day she found the saint and said:
    I would be God's bride, I would wed
    Poverty and I would eat the bread
    That you for anchorites prepare,
    For my soul's sake I am in dread.
    Go then, said Francis, nothing loth,
    Put off this gown of green snake cloth,
    Put on one somber as a moth,
    Then come to me and make your troth
    And I will clip your golden hair.

    She went and came. But still there lay,
    A gem she did not put away,
    A locket twixt her breasts, all gay
    In shimmering pearls and tints of blue,
    And inlay work of fruit and spray.
    St. Francis felt it as he slipped
    His hand across her breast and whipped
    Her golden tresses ere he clipped -
    He closed his eyes then as he gripped
    The shears, plunged the shears through.

    The waterfall of living gold.
    The locks fell to the floor and rolled,
    And curled like serpents which unfold.
    And there sat Lady Clare despoiled.
    Of worldly glory manifold.
    She thrilled to feel him take and hide
    The locket from her breast, a tide
    Of passion caught them side by side.
    He was the bridegroom, she the bride -
    Their flesh but not their spirits foiled.

    Thus was the Lady Clare debased
    To sack cloth and around her waist
    A rope the jeweled belt replaced.
    Her feet made free of silken hose
    Naked in wooden sandals cased
    Went bruised to Bastia's chapel, then
    They housed her in St. Damian
    And here she prayed for poor women
    And here St. Francis sought her when
    His faith sank under earthly woes.

    Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhyme
    And took to wine and got the lime
    Of hatred on his soul, in time
    Grew healed though left a little lame,
    And laughed about it in his prime;
    When he could see with crystal eyes
    That love is a winged thing which flies;
    Some break the wings, some let them rise
    From earth like God's dove to the skies
    Diffused in heavenly flame.