Classic Poem

A MONG the gay, exultant trees,
Over the green and growing grass,
Clothed in immortal mysteries,
I see His living body pass.

The catkins fling abroad His name,
While birds from every bush and spray
Strain feathered necks, and tipped with flame
The hills all stand to greet His day.

Each violet and bluebell curled
Wakes with the dead Christ's waking eye,
And like burst gravestones clouds are hurled
Across the wide and waiting sky.

And drenched, for very height of mirth,
With clean white tears of April rain,
Like Mary Magdalene the earth
Finds April's risen Lord again.