Poetry Archives

The monk was praying in his cell,
  With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
  For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly,
  His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
  A man’s feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down
  A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
  In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly
  Until a hand they spied:
A chisel-scar on it he saw,
  And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face,
  His heart gave one wild bound,
Then stood as if its work were done—
  The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell
  Told him the poor did wait
His hand to give the daily bread
  Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate,
  And with Duty wrestled strong;
And the bell kept calling all the time
  With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him
  He rose up with a sigh:
“He will be gone when I come back
  I go to him by and by!”

He chid his heart, he fed the poor
  All at the convent-gate;
Then with slow-dragging feet went back
  To his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done,
  He had sore need of prayer!
Oh, sad he lifted the latch!—and, lo,
  The Master standing there!

He said, “My poor had not to stand
  Wearily at thy gate:
For him who feeds the shepherd’s sheep
  The shepherd will stand and wait.”

Yet, Lord—for thou would’st have us judge,
  And I will humbly dare—
If he had staid, I do not think
  Thou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear,
  With sweet defending, say:
“The poor ye always have with you,
  Me ye have not alway!”

Thou wouldst have said: “Go feed my poor,
  The deed thou shalt not rue;
Wherever ye do my father’s will
  I always am with you.”