THE PASSION-FLOWER. 67 
— Again I see a lonely man, 
Of spirit sad and mild, 
Who hath his little dwelling-place 
Amid a region wild. 
The wild flowers of the desert 
Grow round him thick as weeds, 
And, in their beautiful array, 
Of holy things he reads. 
The red is the dear blood of Christ, 
The white, the pure from sin, 
The yellow, is the seamless robe 
Christ was apparelled in. 
All four-leaved flowers bring to his mind 
The cross whereon he died ; 
And every thorn the cruel spear, 
That pierced his blessed side. 
I see him as he mused one day 
Beneath a forest-bower, 
With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes, 
Before an open flower ; 
