RHEIMS
It was a people's church—stout, plain folk they,
Wanting their own cathedral, not the king's,
Nor prelate's, nor great noble's. On the walls,
On porch and arch and doorway—see—the saints
Have the plain people's faces. That sweet Virgin
Was young Marie, who lived around the corner,
And whom the sculptor knew. From time to time
He saw her at her work or with her babe,
So gay, so dainty, smiling at the child.
That sturdy Peter—Peter of the keys—
He was old Jean, the Breton fisherman,
Who, somehow, made his way here from the coast
And lived here many years, yet kept withal
The look of the great sea and his great nets.
And John there, the beloved, was Etienne,
And good Saint James was François—brothers they,
And had a small, clean bakeshop, where they sold
