ST. FRANCIS AND LADY CLARE
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ntonio loved the Lady Clare.He caught her to him on the stairAnd pressed her breasts and kissed her hair,And drew her lips in his, and drewHer 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 boundHer 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 pureAs sifted snow, could she endureAntonio's passion and be sureAgainst his passion's strength and lure?Lean fears along her wonder slipped. Outside she heard a drunkard call,She heard a beggar against the wallShaking his cup, a harlot's squallStruck 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 streetThere was the sound of running feetFrom closing door and window seat,And all the crowd turned on its wayThe 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 untilShe heard the Saint begin to pray. And then she turned into the roomHer soul was cloven through with doom,Treading the softness and the gloomOf Asia's silk and Persia's wool,And China's magical perfume.She sickened from the vases huedIn corals, yellows, greens, the lewdTwined dragon shapes and figures nude,And tapestries that showed a broodOf leopards by a pool! Candles of wax she lit beforeA pier glass standing from the floor;Up to the ceiling, off she toreWith eager hands her jewels, thenThe silken vesture which she wore.Her little breasts so round to seeWere budded like the peony.Her arms were white as ivory,And all her sunny hair lay freeAs marigold or celandine. Her blue eyes sparkled like a vaseOf crackled turquoise, in her faceWas memory of the mad embraceAntonio 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 shedDelicate halos where was spreadThe downy growth of hair. Such sudden sin the virgin knewShe quenched the tapers as she blewPuff! puff! upon them, then she threwHerself in tears upon her knees,And round her couch the curtain drew.She called upon St. Francis' name,Feeling Antonio's passion maimHer body with his passion's flameTo save her, save her from the shameOf 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 forevermoreWith harps of gold and silver lutes."She stripped the velvet from her couchHer broken spirit to avouch.She saw the devils slink and slouch,And passion like a leopard crouchHalf mirrored on the polished floor. Next day she found the saint and said:I would be God's bride, I would wedPoverty and I would eat the breadThat 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 trothAnd 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 gayIn shimmering pearls and tints of blue,And inlay work of fruit and spray.St. Francis felt it as he slippedHis hand across her breast and whippedHer golden tresses ere he clipped--He closed his eyes then as he grippedThe 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 hideThe locket from her breast, a tideOf 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 debasedTo sack cloth and around her waistA rope the jeweled belt replaced.Her feet made free of silken hoseNaked in wooden sandals casedWent bruised to Bastia's chapel, thenThey housed her in St. DamianAnd here she prayed for poor womenAnd here St. Francis sought her whenHis faith sank under earthly woes. Antonio cursed St. Clare in rhymeAnd took to wine and got the limeOf hatred on his soul, in timeGrew healed though left a little lame,And laughed about it in his prime;When he could see with crystal eyesThat love is a winged thing which flies;Some break the wings, some let them riseFrom earth like God's dove to the skiesDiffused in heavenly flame.
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