Whene’er I hear the Easter Bells
Ring out their carols gay,
The graves from all the hills and dells
Dissolve from sight away.
I see the mighty planet left
Without a marble stone
To tell of death, or one bereft
Who comes to weep alone.
Dear hands, long folded to their rest,
Return to touch my own,
And voices memory has blessed
In each familiar tone
Speak as in other days to me;
While on the springtime’s breath
Is borne to every land and sea
The news: “There is no death.”