We read that under the far Indian skies,
The dusk magician with his magic wand
Calls from the arid and unseeded sand,
Whereon the shadowless sun's hot fervor lies,
A perfect tree before our wondering eyes:
First a green shoot uplifts a tender hand,
Then trunk and spreading foliage expand
To flower and fruit-and then it drops and dies.

But he-our wizard of the tinted brush-
In God's diviner necromancy skilled,
Gives to our vision Earth, in grandeur free!
Rose-gold of dawn, the evening's purple hush,
The Druid-woods with Nature's worship filled,
The mountains and the everlasting sea.
Upon the heights beyond my reach
You drink from Art's immortal spring,
And vision dreams denied my speech,
And paint the songs I may not sing.