Part 12 (2/2)

Sing, children, sing, And the lily censers swing; Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no more is king.

Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright'ning Spring; Sing, little children, sing, Sing, children, sing, Winter wild has taken wing.

Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring.

Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling; And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun; And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run; And the golden catkins, swing In the warm air of the Spring-- Sing, little children, sing.

Sing, children, sing, The lilies white you bring In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming, And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling, So may we cast our fetters off in G.o.d's eternal Spring; So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain, Soon may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again.

Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace, Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face.

Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tell That death is life, and G.o.d is good, and all things shall be well.

That bitter day shall cease In warmth and light and peace, That winter yields to Spring-- Sing, little children, sing.

--_Celia Thaxter._

[14] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

THE JOY OF THE HILLS.[15]

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; I have found my life and am satisfied.

Onward I ride in the blowing oats, Checking the field lark's rippling notes-- Lightly I sweep from steep to steep; O'er my head through branches high Come glimpses of deep blue sky; The tall oats brush my horse's flanks: Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; A bee booms out of the scented gra.s.s; A jay laughs with me as I pa.s.s.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget Life's h.o.a.rd of regret-- All the terror and pain of a chafing chain.

Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind.

I am lifted elate--the skies expand; Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand.

Let them weary and work in their narrow walls; I ride with the voices of waterfalls.

I swing on as one in a dream--I swing.

Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing.

The world is gone like an empty word; My body's a bough in the wind,--my heart a bird.

--_Edwin Markham._

[15] By permission from Edwin Markham's ”Joy of the Hills and Other Poems,” copyright by Doubleday & McClure, New York.

IN BLOSSOM TIME.

Its O my heart, my heart, To be out in the sun and sing, To sing and shout in the fields about, In the balm and blossoming.

Sing loud, O bird in the tree; O bird, sing loud in the sky, And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds; There are none of you as glad as I.

The leaves laugh low in the wind, Laugh low with the wind at play; And the odorous call of the flowers all Entices my soul away.

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