AT every tomb an angel; A flower in every sod; And surge of banners white ascending From each heart-grief unto God; "While nightingale whose sorrows Filled ruined fane and grove Becomes a very lark to sprinkle Earth with songs of joy and love. "He is not here but risen!"— O little rose, how vain To sob it down your dewy trellis Hiding in your thorns of pain!— "He is not here but risen!"— Ye lily choirs give voice Unto the seraph hills; bid ocean, Cloud and strand rejoice, rejoice! |