Once when our eyes were clean as noon, our rooms

Filled with the joys of Cana’s feast:

For Jesus came, and His disciples, and His Mother,

And after them the singers

And some men with violins.

Once when our minds were Galilees,

And clean as skies our faces,

Our simple rooms were charmed with sun.

Our thoughts went in and out in whiter coats than

God’s disciples’,

In Cana’s crowded rooms, at Cana’s tables.

Nor did we seem to fear the wine would fail:

For ready, in a row, to fill with water and a miracle,

We saw our earthen vessels, waiting empty.

What wine those humble waterjars foretell!

Wine for the ones who, bended to the dirty earth,

Have feared, since lovely Eden, the sun’s fire,

Yet hardly mumble, in their dusty mouths, one prayer.

Wine for old Adam, digging in the briars!