The lilies whisper,
"Hush! On, hush!
The Master is sleeping!"
Be still, glad thrush.
O night winds send
From your muted throat
Your cooling breath--
Bid it curve and float
Singing a silent requiem
While the Master sleeps--
An Easter crown, His diadem.
The grasses murmur,
Lilies weep,
"The Master is gone!"
Where He lay asleep
Only the shroud
He wore is left.
Then an angel's voice,
"Be not bereft,
The Master is risen!
Behold Thy Lord!"
O, dawn winds sing
A triumphant chord!
The Master, smiling,
With infinite grace
Caresses a lily's
Pure white face.
The Poesy Book
