_He touched the spiculed desert--cacti-cursed--
And turned its thorns to figs, its thistles, fruit;
He nodded to the daisy, half immersed
In dwarfing dust, and lo! a lily mute
Rose from the weeds--a perfume with a flute._
_And flowers ran to meet him--trailing vine--
And wild hedge-roses--they whose souls had died
Beneath the feet of cattle and of kine--
Sought him--those pallid Magdalenes--and cried
To touch his hem, and so stood glorified._
_Trees dwarfed and soulless--fruits with hearts of stone,
Wedded at his word; and in the sacred tryst
Of loves united, that had yearned alone,
Gave to the world the nectar of their bliss
In pitless peaches, crimsoned with a kiss._
_Who plants his poems in a berry’s bed,
Or writes, with wild roses, sonnets to the sun,
Hangs pictures on orchard boughs in gold and red,
Makes epics of fruitland where before were none,
Is Poet, Painter, Preacher--Master--all in one!_