When dawns on earth the Easter sun The dear saints feel an answering thrill. With whitest flowers their hands they fill; And, singing all in unison, Unto the battlements they press— The very marge of heaven—how near! And bend, and look upon us here With eyes that rain down tenderness. Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew, Their lilies fair they raise on high; "Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry; "Christ is arisen; we prove it true! "Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears With which your Easter flowers are stained; Share in our bliss, who have attained The rapture of the eternal years; "Have proved the promise which endures, The Love that deigned, the Love that died; Have reached our haven by His side— Are Christ's, but none the less are yours; "Yours with a nearness never known While parted by the veils of sense; Infinite knowledge, joy intense, A love which is not love alone, "But faith perfected, vision free, And patience limitless and wise— Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise! And dare to be as glad as we!" We do rejoice, we do give thanks, O blessed ones, for all your gain, As dimly through these mists of pain We catch the gleaming of your ranks. We will arise, with zeal increased, Blending, the while we strive and grope, Our paler festival of Hope With your Fruition's perfect feast. Bend low beloved, against the blue; Lift higher still the lilies fair, Till, following where our treasures are, We come to join the feast with you.

BIND-WEED

In the deep shadow of the porch A slender bind-weed springs, And climbs, like airy acrobat, The trellises, and swings And dances in the golden sun In fairy loops and rings. Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew, Like pearly chalices, Hold cooling fountains, to refresh The butterflies and bees; And humming-birds on vibrant wings Hover, to drink at ease. And up and down the garden-bed, Mid box and thyme and yew, And spikes of purple lavender, And spikes of larkspur blue, The bind-weed tendrils win their way, And find a passage through. With touches coaxing, delicate, And arts that never tire, They tie the rose-trees each to each, The lilac to the brier, Making for graceless things a grace, With steady, sweet desire. Till near and far the garden growths. The sweet, the frail, the rude, Draw close, as if with one consent, And find each other good, Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, In a dear brotherhood. Like one fair sister, slender, arch, A flower in bloom and poise, Gentle and merry and beloved, Making no stir or noise, But swaying, linking, blessing all A family of boys.

APRIL

Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping, Comes a voice all clamorous with despair; It is April, crying sore and weeping, O'er the chilly earth, so brown and bare. "When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing, "All my violet-banks were starred with blue; Who, O, who has been here, basely robbing Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew? "Who has reft the robin's hidden treasure,— All the speckled spheres he loved so well? And the buds which danced in merry measure To the chiming of the hyacinth's bell? "Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying? And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair, Like the spray from silver fountains playing, Where the elm-tree's column rose in air? "All are vanished, and my heart is breaking; And my tears they slowly drip and fall; Only death could listen without waking To the grief and passion of my call!" Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices. Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain, Raised in song as when the wind rejoices, Ring the answer, "We are here again. "We were hiding, April. Did you miss us? None of us were really gone away; Stoop thy pretty head and gently kiss us Once before we all come out to play. "Here are all the clustering burls of roses, And the dandelion's mimic sun; Of thy much-beloved and vanished posies None are missing, not a single one!" Little points of green push out to greet her, Little creepers grasp her garment's hem, Hidden sweetnesses grow ever sweeter As she bends and brightly smiles at them. Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every high with songs and laughter blent, Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.

MAY

New flowery scents strewed everywhere, New sunshine poured in largesse fair, "We shall be happy now," we say. A voice just trembles through the air, And whispers, "May." Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud But thrills with rapture at the flood Of fresh young life which stirs to-day. The same wild thrill irradiates our blood; Why hint of "May"? For us are coming fast and soon The delicate witcheries of June; July, with ankles deep in hay; The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune Again sounds, "May." Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet, And golden locks in breezy play, Half teasing and half tender, to repeat Her song of "May." Ah, month of hope! all promised glee, All merry meanings, lie in thee; Surely no cloud can daunt thy day. The ripe lips part in smiling mockery, And murmur, "May." Still from the smile a comfort may we glean; Although our "must-be's," "shall-be's," idle seem, Close to our hearts one little word we lay: We may not be as happy as we dream, But then we—may.

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