’Tis the touch of Christ’s hand that upraiseth the dead;
’Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of man;—
The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed
And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran.
Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave;
But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope,
It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave
And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope.
WHITE-ENTHRONED ABOVE ME.
(ON A SMALL WHITE-ROSE BOUQUET PRESENTED BY A LADY AND PLACED IN PALGRAVE’S “GOLDEN TREASURY,” OPPOSITE “THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.”)
White roses, sweet white roses