Easter

I KNOW the Summer fell asleepLong weary months ago;Heaped high above her grave I sawThe heavy winter snow;Say, sparrow, then, what word you bring;Is it her requiem you sing?

The meadowlark is mute, the wrenForgets his late abode,No throstle answering fluteth near,Yet never prelude flowedFrom ivied bosk or verdant slopeMore brimming with delight and hope!

I, listening, seem to see the bloomsThat were whilom so dear,And voices loved and silent longI, listening, seem to hear;And longings in my breast confer,And sweet, prophetic pulses stir.

"Thou lonely one," they seem to say,"Lost Summer shall return;Wreathed in her shadowy tresses shallThe roses blissful burn;Wan lilies at her feet shall lie,And wind-flowers on her bosom sigh.

"Here, from this rough and lowly bed,The little celandineShall lift her sunny glances toThe balmy eglantine;And flags shall flaunt by yonder lake,And fair Narcissus there awake."

I know the Summer fell asleepLong weary months ago;But ah! all is not lost, poor heart,That's laid beneath the snow;There wait, grown cold to care and strife,Things costliest, dying into life.

All changes, but Life ceases notWith the suspended breath;There is no bourne to Being, andNo permanence in Death;Time flows to an eternal sea,Space widens to Infinity!