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,