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.