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| WHO feels not, when the Spring once more | |
| Stepping o’er Winter’s grave forlorn | |
| With winged feet, retreads the shore | |
| Of widowed earth, his bosom burn? | |
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| As ordered flower succeeds to flower, | 5 |
| And May the ladder of her sweets | |
| Ascends, advancing hour by hour | |
| From scale to scale, what heart but beats? | |
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| Some Presence veiled, in fields and groves, | |
| That mingles rapture with remorse; | 10 |
| Some buried joy beside us moves, | |
| And thrills the soul with such discourse | |
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| As they, perchance, that wondering pair | |
| Who to Emmaus bent their way, | |
| Hearing, heard not. Like them our prayer | 15 |
| We make—“The night is near us—Stay!” | |
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| With Paschal chants the churches ring: | |
| Their echoes strike along the tombs: | |
| The birds their hallelujahs sing: | |
| Each flower with floral incense fumes. | 20 |
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| Our long-lost Eden seems restored; | |
| As on we move with tearful eyes | |
| We feel through all the illumined sward | |
| Some upward-working Paradise. | |
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