When sodden grass is gray as naked boughs
Along whose length no touch of summer glows—
Folded the buds within their spicy shrouds,
Waiting the coming of their Easter morn,
When the up-risen sun their bonds shall break,
Earth’s alleluia in the forests wake,
Wherein no voice more glad than this is born
That fills the farewell hours of winter gloom
With skies of blue and fields knee-deep in bloom.