And the lily censers swing;
Sing that life and joy are waking and that
Death no more is king.
Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright’ning Spring;
Sing, little children, sing,
Sing, children, sing,
Winter wild has taken wing.
Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.
Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;
And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;