Classic Poem

When thou dost lay thine hand upon a thing
It gleams for ever, glorified and new, —
For round thee some magnetic robe doth cling
Which from each flower extracts its secret true.
The daisies at the touching of thy wing,
As if fresh-bathed in lavish evening dew,
Dart forth pink sweeter petals; — passing through
The meadows, choirs of birds about thee sing.

I praise all holy gifts, when thee I praise, —
For all the boons thou grantest me are such.
Treading behind thee, in Christ's heavenlit ways
I tread; I seek thy footpath, wondering much;
All common joys, transfiguring, thou dost raise,
Making them everlasting by thy touch.