| |
| IN the narrow Venetian street, | |
| On the wall above the garden gate | |
| (Within the breath of the rose is sweet, | |
| And the nightingale sings there, soon and late), | |
| |
| Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone, | 5 |
| With the little child in his huge caress, | |
| And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown | |
| About his gigantic tenderness; | |
| |
| And over the wall a wandering growth | |
| Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, | 10 |
| And climbs around them, and holds them both | |
| In its netted clasp of knots and rings, | |
| |
| Clothing the saint from foot to beard | |
| In glittering leaves that whisper and dance | |
| To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, | 15 |
| With a lusty summer exuberance. | |
| |
| To the child on his arm the faithful saint | |
| Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy; | |
| His brows and his heavy beard aslant | |
| Under the dimpled chin of the boy, | 20 |
| |
| Who plays with the world upon his palm, | |
| And bends his smiling looks divine | |
| On the face of the giant mild and calm, | |
| And the glittering frolic of the vine. | |
| |
| He smiles on either with equal grace,— | 25 |
| On the simple ivy’s unconscious life, | |
| And the soul in the giant’s lifted face, | |
| Strong from the peril of the strife: | |
| |
| For both are his own,—the innocence | |
| That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven, | 30 |
| And the virtue that greatly rises thence | |
| Through trial sent and victory given. | |
| |
| Grow, ivy, up to his countenance, | |
| But it cannot smile on my life as on thine; | |
| Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, | 35 |
| Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine. | |
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