Classic Poem

In such a cell one time a monk did set
In an old missal many a lovely shape
Of crimson roses and the purple grape
And golden apples in a silver net.

He wreathed such splendors with the alphabet
The mellow pages shone with pure delight.
Here heavenly trumpets blew with holy might
Such lovely sound as no one can forget.

Each flaming word on its high errand sprang.
‘Silver and gold,’ they choired every one—
‘Silver and gold’ … like sweet birds in a tree.
‘Silver and gold’ the fiery letters sang …

‘Silver and gold,’ said Peter, ‘have I none—
But what I have that do I give to Thee.’