Classic Poem

On a leaf that waits but a breath to crumble
Is written this legend of fair Clairvaux,
How once at the abbey gates stood humble
A carle more supple than beechen bow,
And they cloistered him, though to dance and tumble
Was all the lore he had wit to know.

He had never a vesper hymn nor matin,
Pater-noster nor credo learned;
Ill had the wood-birds taught him Latin,
But to every wayside cross he turned,
And Our Lady of Val wore cloth of satin
Because of the gold his gambols earned.

So they cloistered him at his heart's desire,
Though never a stave could he tone aright.
With shame and grief was his soul afire
To stand in the solemn candle light
Abashed and mute before priest and choir
And the little lark-voiced acolyte.

Of penance and vigil he was not chary,
With bitter rods was his body whipt;
Yet his heart, like a stag's, was wild and wary,
Till at last, one morn, from the mass he slipt
And hied him down to a shrine of Mary
Deep in the dusk of the pillared crypt.

" Ah, beauteous Lady, " he cried, imploring
The image whose face in the gloom was wan.
" Let me work what I may for thine adoring,
Though less than the least of thy clergeons can:
But here thou art lonely, while chants are soaring
In the church above; and a dancing man

Might do thee disport. " Then he girt him neatly
And vaulted before her the vault of Champagne.
On his head and hands he tumbled featly,
Did the Aragon twirl and the leap of Lorraine,
Till the Queen of Heaven's dim lips smiled sweetly
As she watched his joyance of toil and pain.

Ay, even so long as the high mass lasted
He plied his art in that darksome place,
And never again he scourged nor fasted
His eager body whose lissome grace
Cheered Our Lady till years had wasted
The dancer's force, and he drooped apace.

And once, when the buds were bright on the larches
And the young wind whispered of violets,
He came like a wounded knight who marches
To the tomb of Christ. With striving and sweats
He made there under those sombre arches
The Roman spring and the vault of Metz.

Then he could no more and, with hand uplifted,
Saluted Our Lady and fell to earth,
Where the monks discovered his corse all drifted
Over with blooms of celestial birth;
For when human worship at last is sifted,
Our best is labor and love and mirth.