In old Assisi, Francis loved so well
His Lady Poverty, that to his heart
He pressed her heart, nor felt the deadly smart
From lips of frost, nor saw the fire of hell
From lurid eyes that fevered Dante's cell,
And parches souls who, hating, feel her dart.
He chose her, and he dwelt with her apart,
The two were one, illumined through Love's spell:

He loved her, and she glowed, a lambent star;
He loved her, and the birds came at his call —
Her frosts were pearls, her face was fair to see.
He sang his lady's praises near and far,
He saw our world as Adam ere the Fall —
So Love transfigures even Poverty.