A mote of vagrant pollen went, breeze-borne,
With fertile gospel unto barren corn;
One teeming talent, missed by vine and leaf,
Bore magical enrichment to a sheaf;
Yet no man saw the miracle that morn.
A wee brown-breasted singer, during rain,
Released one wild wood-lyric, and again
The miracle of speech, to one long mute.
Returned, whose lips straightway cast golden fruit
Of Truth, far-sounding o'er a world of pain.
A pranking sunbeam touched a sodden face,
And men who erstwhile shunned saw Christlike grace
Where sin-whipped clouds made loathsome havoc sure;
And eyes that feared the sun saw all things pure,
In softlier light,—redemption for a race.
