AN EASTER INCIDENT.
217
It was not the palpitant flutter
Of some poor terrified thing
That beateth the bars of its prison,
And bruiseth its tender wing,
But an eager, exultant motion,
Glad as the pulse of spring.
Of some poor terrified thing
That beateth the bars of its prison,
And bruiseth its tender wing,
But an eager, exultant motion,
Glad as the pulse of spring.
The flash of a thought, and the listener
Had lighted her lamp anew,
And wide on the shadowy chamber
Its fullest radiance threw;
When straightway toward its shining
The beautiful visitant flew.
Had lighted her lamp anew,
And wide on the shadowy chamber
Its fullest radiance threw;
When straightway toward its shining
The beautiful visitant flew.
A moth, a marvel of measure
From tip to tip of its wings,
Painted in colors resplendent—
Lightest and fairest of things;
Type of the Resurrection,
The angel's own message it brings!
From tip to tip of its wings,
Painted in colors resplendent—
Lightest and fairest of things;
Type of the Resurrection,
The angel's own message it brings!
Did the angel himself, descending
And passing through hamlet and town
To waken once more the faithful,
Their sorrow with joy to crown,
Touch with finger transcendent
That tiniest cradle brown?
And passing through hamlet and town
To waken once more the faithful,
Their sorrow with joy to crown,
Touch with finger transcendent
That tiniest cradle brown?
