THE saints and I have roamed Sewanee hills
And hymned each sunset, prayed in every glen.
I sometimes meet the barefoot Francis men,
Their brown robes trailing through the shallow rills,
Their lifted eyes aglow. Above the mill’s
Click-clacking drone I hear their songs, and when
I tread the marsh grass through a lonely fen
I meet Saint Werburgh’s goose among the squills.
Saint Agnes’ lambs are capering the sky
Above the Garner’s orchard of peach bloom,
And from the dimly vaulted forest tomb
Saint Giles and his tame deer go lightly by.
And often in the cloistered garth below
Good Brother Lawrence kneels on moonlit snow.