Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/108

94 Tearing against sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship midst his fellow-men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs de mure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair ! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women s breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well-worn path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained