Twenty-Sixth of April
No wreath of roses, no breath of spice,
The Women may weep alone!
While the sepulchre holds the sacrifice,
And there's none to move the stone!
A little pebble from Plymouth Rock,
To roll to a boulder one day,
When a fine morality shuns the shock
Of — loving your dead on Sunday!
And yet how sacred that holy day
Which sees all souls unite,
When none shall number the hearts that say
" Our Father, " nor challenge the lips that pray
As Gentile or Israelite!
The holiest day for the holiest deed
That ever the earth hath known;
Oh, darkened hearts of our sunny land,
This day for the dead — if the angel hand
Shall roll away the stone.
The Women may weep alone!
While the sepulchre holds the sacrifice,
And there's none to move the stone!
A little pebble from Plymouth Rock,
To roll to a boulder one day,
When a fine morality shuns the shock
Of — loving your dead on Sunday!
And yet how sacred that holy day
Which sees all souls unite,
When none shall number the hearts that say
" Our Father, " nor challenge the lips that pray
As Gentile or Israelite!
The holiest day for the holiest deed
That ever the earth hath known;
Oh, darkened hearts of our sunny land,
This day for the dead — if the angel hand
Shall roll away the stone.
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