III.
Master of men and gods, in every fold
Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew
The labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,
Lie hid—the quintessential charms that woo
The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might
Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;
Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling
Their spells of healing over land and sea,
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”