O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing,
Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day?
Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying,
Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?
For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd—
Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear;
From our close embraces ye are far removèd,
And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.
Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting—
Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!”
Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting—
Earth and we together sang a roundelay!
Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow;
Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears;
After night of watching came the glad to-morrow,
Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.
Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth,
Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day—
And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth,
Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!
“O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST”
O wind that blows out of the West,
Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,
Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings
The breath of my love to me?
Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?
Or tangled her soft brown hair?
Or fluttered the fragrant heart
Of the rose she loves to wear?
O sun that goes down in the West,
Hast thou seen my love to-day,
As she sits in her beautiful prime
Under skies so far away?
Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,
Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,
Or bent from the skies to hear
The low, sweet words she speaks?
O stars that are bright in the West
When the hush of the night is deep,
Do ye see my love as she lies
Like a chaste, white flower asleep?
Does she smile as she walks with me
In the light of a happy dream,
While the night winds rustle the leaves,
And the light waves ripple and gleam?
O birds that fly out of the West,
Do ye bring me a message from her,
As sweet as your love-notes are,
When the warm spring breezes stir?
Did she whisper a word of me
As your tremulous wings swept by,
Or utter my name, mayhap,
In a single passionate cry?
O voices out of the West,
Ye are silent every one,
And never an answer comes
From wind, or stars, or sun!
And the blithe birds come and go
Through the boundless fields of space,
As reckless of human prayers
As if earth were a desert place!