XII.

So highest poets, painters, owe to Thee

Their being and disciples; none were there,

Hadst Thou not been; Thou art the centre where

The Truth did find an infinite form; and she

Left not the earth again, but made it be

One of her robing rooms, where she doth wear

All forms of revelation. Artists bear

Tapers in acolyte humility.

O Poet! Painter! soul of all! thy art

Went forth in making artists. Pictures? No;

But painters, who in love should ever show

To earnest men glad secrets from God's heart.

So, in the desert, grass and wild flowers start,

When through the sand the living waters go.