Saint of the Lost

WALKING Elysian fields the saints forget
The salt of human tears. What went before
Grows faint and far; the most importunate
Cry of the heart falls cold; they heed no more.
Only Saint Anthony can never rest,
Searching the depths for what has slipped or gone.

So long as men pray he must be oppressed,
So long as men lose he must labor on,
His face forever turned from Paradise
Lest he should miss that single sparrow’s fall;
He finds the strayed sheep with his faithful eyes;
He holds in sight the lonely prodigal:
Saint of the lost who cannot sleep nor stand
While one child wanders from his mother’s hand.