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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420656" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Brother Of Mercy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Piero Luca, known of all the town<br>As the gray porter by the Pitti wall<br>Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,<br>Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down<br>His last sad burden, and beside his mat<br>The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,<br>Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;<br>Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted<br>Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,<br>In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life<br>But when at last came upward from the street<br>Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,<br>The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,<br>Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.<br>And the monk said, ''T is but the Brotherhood<br>Of Mercy going on some errand good<br>Their black masks by the palace-wall I see.'<br>Piero answered faintly, 'Woe is me!<br>This day for the first time in forty years<br>In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears,<br>Calling me with my brethren of the mask,<br>Beggar and prince alike, to some new task<br>Of love or pity,--haply from the street<br>To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet<br>Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain,<br>To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors,<br>Down the long twilight of the corridors,<br>Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain.<br>I loved the work: it was its own reward.<br>I never counted on it to offset<br>My sins, which are many, or make less my debt<br>To the free grace and mercy of our Lord;<br>But somehow, father, it has come to be<br>In these long years so much a part of me,<br>I should not know myself, if lacking it,<br>But with the work the worker too would die,<br>And in my place some other self would sit<br>Joyful or sad,--what matters, if not I?<br>And now all's over. Woe is me!'--'My son,'<br>The monk said soothingly, 'thy work is done;<br>And no more as a servant, but the guest<br>Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest.<br>No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost,<br>Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down<br>Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown<br>Forever and forever.'--Piero tossed<br>On his sick-pillow: 'Miserable me!<br>I am too poor for such grand company;<br>The crown would be too heavy for this gray<br>Old head; and God forgive me if I say<br>It would be hard to sit there night and day,<br>Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught<br>With these hard hands, that all my life have wrought,<br>Not for bread only, but for pity's sake.<br>I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake,<br>Counting my beads. Mine's but a crazy head,<br>Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead.<br>And if one goes to heaven without a heart,<br>God knows he leaves behind his better part.<br>I love my fellow-men: the worst I know<br>I would do good to. Will death change me so<br>That I shall sit among the lazy saints,<br>Turning a deaf ear to the sore complaints<br>Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet<br>Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset,<br>Or ass o'erladen! Must I rate man less<br>Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness?<br>Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin!)<br>The world of pain were better, if therein<br>One's heart might still be human, and desires<br>Of natural pity drop upon its fires<br>Some cooling tears.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thereat the pale monk crossed<br>His brow, and, muttering, 'Madman! thou art lost!'<br>Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,<br>The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan<br>That sank into a prayer, 'Thy will be done!'<br>Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,<br>Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,<br>And of a voice like that of her who bore him,<br>Tender and most compassionate: 'Never fear!<br>For heaven is love, as God himself is love;<br>Thy work below shall be thy work above.'<br>And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place<br>He saw the shining of an angel's face!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Traveller broke the pause. 'I've seen<br>The Brothers down the long street steal,<br>Black, silent, masked, the crowd between,<br>And felt to doff my hat and kneel<br>With heart, if not with knee, in prayer,<br>For blessings on their pious care.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reader wiped his glasses: 'Friends of mine,<br>I'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420656" data-title="The Brother Of Mercy de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="Piero Luca, known of all the town
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down
His last sad burden, and beside his mat
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in squar..."></div>
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