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WHEN dawns on earth the Easter sun,
The dear saints feel an answering thrill,
With whitest flowers their hands they fill,
And singing all in unison,

Unto the battlements they press, —
The very marge of heaven — how near!
And bend and look upon us here,
With eyes that rain down tenderness.

Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,
Their lilies fair, they raise on high;
“Rejoice! The Lord is risen!” they cry;
“Christ is arisen, we prove it true!

“Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears
With which your Easter flowers are stained;