An Easter Canticle

In every trembling bud and bloom That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword, I see Thee come from out the tomb, Thou risen Lord. In every April wind that sings Down lanes that make the heart rejoice; Yea, in the word the wood-thrush brings, I hear Thy voice. Lo! every tulip is a cup To hold Thy morning's brimming wine; Drink, O my soul, the wonder up--- Is it not Thine? The great Lord God, invisible, Hath roused to rapture the green grass; Through sunlit mead and dew-drenched dell, I see Him pass. His old immortal glory wakes The rushing streams and emerald hills; His ancient trumpet softly shakes The daffodils. Thou art not dead! Thou art the whole Of life that quickens in the sod; Green April is Thy very soul, Thou great Lord God.