Here lies the ideals of Saint Francis,
Pressed in the folds of earth, the little plant,
Drooped to a smile of meager flesh and bone.
Here lies the triumph of the little poor man,
The lovely, wasted witness to his dream.
Bring no polite compassion to her coffin
And stay the pitying upward flight of brow
For Francis and his dream without a haven,
His mad impossible schemes. Here lies the proof
His dream was wholly possible to her heart.
Here lies the refutation for crawling cautions;
Sweet, mute rebuttal to any compromise.
Her crypt is full of flower talk, and gladly
The stars come swimming down to kiss her face
Caught in its quiet splendor. Be still! Be still!
The place is full of angel talk or song.
Here lies the fragile flower of Saint Francis
Stronger than armies! here, the unswerving gaze
Shuttered at last on earth, and turned on Godhead.
Here lies the testimony to Saint Francis:
Clare of Assisi.
Who weeps, weep but for joy.