AT EASTER-TIDE.
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow
For font and altar, virgin things,
When spikes of maple scarlet show,
And thin clouds white as angels’ wings,
While some fresh voice the message flings
“The Lord is risen!”—from long ago
Rise purified the tombéd Springs,
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow.
Oh, when the hallowed hour not brings
Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know,
Nor I o’er change and distance throw,
In midmost prayer, an arm that clings,
Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings
I shall not hear, nor hear whatso
The clear young voice triumphant sings,
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow!