October’s hush, in twilight’s grace,
A gentle soul left time and place.
Not clothed in gold nor crowned with pride,
But robed in rags, he stepped aside.

The birds, they wept upon the breeze,
The sun bowed low among the trees,
For he who sang with lark and dove
Now soared into the arms of Love.

In Umbria’s hills, so still, so mild,
Death came to Francis like a child—
No fear, no cry, no bitter breath,
But sister, sweet, he called her Death.

He kissed the wounds that broke the skin
Of Christ and all the poor akin.
He held the leper, fed the bare,
And taught the wolf how not to tear.

Now every year the bells do ring,
The sparrow stops mid-flight to sing,
The lilies bloom out of the clay—
Creation mourns, yet sings this day.

O brother sun, O sister moon,
You saw him go, not late, but soon.
And in his wake, a trail of peace,
Where cruelty and greed must cease.

Saint Francis walks where saints have trod,
Still barefoot on the path to God.
And we remember, hearts grown still—
To live with grace, to love, to will.