Most like the dweller of the hurricane
Calm, small, and still, directing desolation;
Death to the world athwart its path.—So he
Cried out upon me “Till this barren staff
Take life, and bud, and blossom, and bear fruit,
And shed sweet scent—so long God casteth thee
Out from His glory!” Stricken, smitten, slain—
When—one unknown, a pilgrim with the rest,
Darting long rugged fingers and deep eyes,
Reached to the sceptre with his word and will—