Sing, children, sing,
And the lily censers swing;
Sing that life and joy are waking and that
Death no more is king.
Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright'ning Spring;
Sing, little children, sing,
Sing, children, sing,
Winter wild has taken wing.
Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.
Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling;
And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun;
And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run;
And the golden catkins, swing
In the warm air of the Spring--
Sing, little children, sing.
Sing, children, sing,
The lilies white you bring
In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming,
And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,
So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal Spring;
So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,
Soon may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again.
Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,
Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face.
Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tell
That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well.
That bitter day shall cease
In warmth and light and peace,
That winter yields to Spring--
Sing, little children, sing.
--_Celia Thaxter._
[14] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers.