Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/98

As hyacinths make way from out the dark,
          My soul awakes,
At thought of Thee, like sap beneath the bark;
As little violets in field and park
Rise to the trilling thrush and meadow-lark,
          New hope it takes.

As thou goest upward through the nameless space
          We call the sky,
Like jonquil perfume softly falls Thy grace;
It seems to touch and brighten every place;
Fresh flowers crown our wan and weary race,
          O Thou on high.

Hadst Thou not risen, there would be no more joy
          Upon earth's sod;
Life would still be with us a wound or toy,
A cloud without the sun,—O Babe, O Boy,
A Man of Mother pure, with no alloy,
          O risen God!

Thou, God and King, didst "mingle in the game,"
          (Cease, all fears; cease!)
For love of us,—not to give Virgil's fame
Or Croesus' wealth, not to make well the lame,
Or save the sinner from deserved shame,
          But for sweet Peace!

For peace, for joy,—not that the slave might lie
          In luxury,
Not that all woe from us should always fly,
Or golden crops with Syrian roses vie
In every field; but in Thy peace to die
          And rise,—be free!