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April Twilights and Other Poems

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<h3>PROVENÇAL LEGEND</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> On his little grave and wild, Faustinus, the martyr child, Candytuft and mustards grow. Ah, how many a June has smiled On the turf he lies below. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ages gone they laid him there, Quit of sun and wholesome air, Broken flesh and tortured limb; Leaving all his faith the heir Of his gentle hope and him. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yonder, under pagan skies, Bleached by rains, the circus lies, Where they brought him from his play. Comeliest his of sacrifice, Youth and tender April day. </div> <div class="stanza"> “Art thou not the shepherd’s son?— There the hills thy lambkins run?— These the fields thy brethren keep?” “On a higher hill than yon Doth my Father lead His sheep.” </div> <div class="stanza"> “Bring thy ransom, then,” they say, “Gold enough to pave the way From the temple to the Rhone.” When he came, upon his day, Slender, tremulous, alone,{41} </div> <div class="stanza"> Mustard flowers like these he pressed, Golden, flame-like, to his breast, Blooms the early weanlings eat. When his Triumph brought him rest, Yellow bloom lay at his feet. </div> <div class="stanza"> Golden play-days came: the air Called him, weanlings bleated there, Roman boys ran fleet with spring; Shorn of youth and usage fair, Hope nor hill-top days they bring. </div> <div class="stanza"> But the shepherd children still Come at Easter, warm or chill, Come with violets gathered wild From his sloping pasture hill, Play-fellows who would fulfill Play-time to that martyr child. {42}</div> </div></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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