Some ghosts, they say, deplore their ghostliness,

Wail and complain and weary of their haunting.

Hard fate, to wander always at a loss,

To want and not know how to tell their wanting.

So saints are sad of the world and wonder why,

Tired after two miles with him who asked for one,

Bruised by the rain of I, I, and me, and my,

Torn between possible and the little done.

Let thieves chemists, ships, and shouldering boys

Be doomed to stretch and move as they were meant.

Who suffers his weather, savors jails and joys,

If not the saint when told he is a saint?

That innocence of heart in which he moves,

That effortless patience carrying the day,

That selfless grief at grief of those he loves,

Dooms him to sainthood, and no need to pray.

This is a most serious occupation, rare

The man who makes it his. Rigor without rules,

Daring in doubt, no pay, and' endless care,

And sufferance not gladly of himself and fools -

Who'd waste his love the crazy way the world

Wears, murders, spoils, and rubs itself to dust?

The born saint, for so his unborn body curled. T

The family, citizen saint, because he must.