Would I might wake St. Francis in you all,
Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour,
Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;
Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men,
Come, let us chant the canticle again
Of mother earth and the enduring sun.
God make each soul the lonely leper's slave;
God make us saints, and brave.
More verses by Vachel Lindsay
- Drying Their Wings
- A Rhyme About An Electrical Advertising Sign
- Ghosts In Love
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
- How A Little Girl Danced