WE light the Easter fire, and the Easter lamps we trim,
And lilies rear their chaliced cups in churches rich and dim,
And chapel low and Minster high the same triumphant strains
In city and in village raise, and on the lonely plains.
“Life” is the strain, and “endless life” the chiming bells repeat,—
A word of victory over death, a word of promise sweet;
And as the great good clasps the less, the sun a myriad rays,
So do a hundred thoughts of joy cling round our Easter days.
And one, which seems at times the best and dearest of them all,
Is this: that all the many dead in ages past recall,
With the friends who died so long ago that memory seeks in vain
To call the vanished faces back, and make them live again;
And those so lately gone from us that still they seem to be
Beside our path, beside our board, in viewless company,—
A light for all our weary hours, a glory by the way,—
All, all the dead, the near, the far, take part in Easter day!
They share the life we hope to share, as once they shared in this;
They hold in fast possession our heritage of bliss.
Theirs is the sure, near Presence toward which we reach and strain;
On Easter day, on Easter day, we all are one again.
Oh, fairest of the fair, high thoughts that light the Easter dawn!
Oh, sweet and true companionship which cannot be withdrawn!
“The Lord is risen!” sealed lips repeat out of the shadows dim;
“The Lord is risen,” we answer back, “and all shall rise in him!”
“DER ABEND IST DER BESTE.”
THE morning hours are joyful fair,
With call of bird and scent of dew;
And blent with shining gold and blue
And glad the summer noontides are;
The slow sun lingering seeks the west,
As loath to leave and grieve so soon
The long and fragrant afternoon;
But still the evening is the best.
Day may be full as day may be,—
Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyes
Alight with joyful prophecies;
But still we turn where wistfully
The veilèd evening, dimly fair,
Stands in the shadow without speech,
And holds her one gift out to each,—
Her gift of rest, for all to share.
Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glow
On silver hairs, all peaceful bent
To catch the last rays, and content
To watch the twilight softly grow;
Content to face the night and keep
The peaceful vigil of the eve,
And like a little child to breathe
A “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day!
Which thinks of morn without regret;
Which thinks of busy noon, and yet
Grieves not to put its toils away;
Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest,
Watches the sweet, still evening fade,
Counting its hours all unafraid,—
Surely the evening is the best.