What matter for their fullest flower
October days or April bright?
They have but simple wish to drink,
Even the sanguine, light;
On sombre days, when under clouds
Haggardly the heavens hide,
They will, for one lone ray of sun,
Exalt at Christmastide.
You, oh spirits, live like them!
They have not pride that lilies feel,
But hold within their folds a sacred
And immortal zeal.