In Arezzo I dreamed a dream. Of Saint Francis who kneeled and prayed. For the birds and the beasts and all humankind. All through the night I felt drawn in by him. And I heard him call. Like a distant hymn. I retreated from the silence of my room. Stepping down the ancient stones washed with dawn. And entered the basilica that bore his name. Seeing his effigy I bowed my head. And my racing heart I gave to him. I kneeled and prayed. And the sleep that I could not find in the night. I found through him. I saw before me the world of his world. The bright fieldthe birds in abundance. All of nature of which he sang. Singing of him. All the beauty that surrounded him as he walked. His nature that was nature itself. And I heard him-I heard him speak. And the birds sang sweetly. And the wolves licked his feet. But I could not give myself to him. I felt another call from basilica itself. Tha call of art-the call of man. And the beauty of material drew me away. And I awokeand beheld upon the wall. The dream of Constantine. The handiwork of Piero della Francesca. Who had stood where I stood. With his brush stroked The Legend of the True Cross. He envisioned Constantine advancing to greet the enemy. But as he was passing the river. An unaccustomed fear gripped his bowels. An anticipation so overwhelming that it manifested in waves. All through the night a dream drew toward him. As an advancing Crusade. He slept in his tent on the battlefield. While his men stood guard. And an angel awoke him. Constantine within his dream awoke. And his men saw a light pass over the face of the king. The troubled King. And the angel came and showed to him. The sign of the true cross in heaven. And upon it was written. (In this sign shall thou conquer). In the distance the tents of his army were lit by moonlight. But another king of radiance lit the face of Constantine. And in the morning light. The artistseeing his work was done. Saw that it was good. (In this sign shall thou conquer). He let his brush drop and passed into a sleep of his own. And he dreamed of Constantine carrying into battle in his right hand. An immaculateundefiled single white Cross. Piero della Francescaas his bursh stroked the wall. Was filled with a torpor. And fell into a dream of his own. From the geometry of his heart he mapped it out. He saw the King risefitted with armor. Set upon a white horse. An immaculate cross in his right hand. He advanced toward the enemy. And the symmetrythe perfection of his mathematics. Caused the scattering of the enemy. Agitatedbrokenthey fled. And Piero della Francesca wakingcried out. All is art-all is future!. Oh lord let me die on the back of advanture. With a brush and an eye full of light. But as he advanced in age. The light was shorn from his eyes. And blindedhe laid upon his bed. On an October moring 1492and whispered. Oh lord let me die on the back of adventure. Oh lord let me die on the back of adventure. And a world away-a world away. On three great ships. Adventure itself as if to answer. Pulling into the New World. And as far as his eyes could see. No longer blind. All of nature unspoiled-beautiful-beautiful. In such a manner that would have lifted the heart of St.Francis. Into the realm of universal love