"Sir Griffin"

With a firm and knowing hand, hardened with calluses, 
From his seat on the wagon he drives his horses.
A tired old hat, near to being a relic, 
Offers shade to his squinting blue eyes,
It's not easy to know which was first,
Or which will be last, his coat or his hat; 
Both are as old as his trousers
Covered with repairs from belt to cuff.
A slave to work, he is convinced
That honor and nobility are not to be found in clothes.
Beneath that outward show a noble soul lies hidden;
And though no athlete he is strong as an oak.
Neither snow nor wind, neither cold nor frost,
Neither heat nor rain impede his march.

With his team of heavy draught-horses,
On his wagon, indifferent to the passage of time and of life, 
He passes, though he does not scorn them
As did the ancient philosophers of Greece.
Sir Griffin is no stoic, for his philosophy
Oscillates between love and gentle happiness.
Even in time of winter, when treacherous wind
Whips him with its wings and covers him with snow,
He has for all, even then, a smile,
Or time for a chat, he is never too hurried.
If he had lived in Francis' time,
The Saint would have called him to the habit.

Fr. Enrique Aguilar, O.F.M., Sinfonias de Otono, St. Bonaventure University, St. Bonaventure, N.Y., 1962.

Translated by Finbarr Conroy, St. Bonaventure, 1978.

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