 | Morning Glories : |  |
WHEN I WOULD DIE!
Not when leaves are brown and sere,
Not when days are cold and drear;
Not when roses faded die,
Not when clouds o'ercast the sky.
But when spring-time breezes blow,
And make sweet music, soft and low;
When birds their happy carols sing,
When flowers their lovely odors bring—
When woods their richest verdure yield,
When lambs frisk in the clover-field;
When bee and butterfly fill the air,
When morn awaketh bright and fair;
When love upon the breeze is born—
Oh, I would die on Easter morn!
Not when days are cold and drear;
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Not when clouds o'ercast the sky.
But when spring-time breezes blow,
And make sweet music, soft and low;
When birds their happy carols sing,
When flowers their lovely odors bring—
When woods their richest verdure yield,
When lambs frisk in the clover-field;
When bee and butterfly fill the air,
When morn awaketh bright and fair;
When love upon the breeze is born—
Oh, I would die on Easter morn!
When the morn with lovely grace
Greets the world in soft embrace;
When the lily's rich perfume
Woos the minstrel's harp to tune,
And the lark his song of praises
To the Great Creator raises.
Upward soars in happy mood,
Loud his notes of gratitude,
For security and rest,
For the birdlings in his nest.
When the daisies dot the lawn,
I would die at Easter dawn!
Greets the world in soft embrace;
When the lily's rich perfume
Woos the minstrel's harp to tune,
And the lark his song of praises
To the Great Creator raises.
Upward soars in happy mood,
Loud his notes of gratitude,
For security and rest,
For the birdlings in his nest.
When the daisies dot the lawn,
I would die at Easter dawn!
When the year is blithe and young.
Happiness on every tongue—
After winter's icy chains
Lose their hold upon the plains;
When the waters, rippling on,
Tell the power of winter gone—
Spring leads him her willing slave,
Then lay me in the quiet grave;
Loved ones, do not come and weep,
For I shall only be asleep;
Roses heap upon the mound,
And I shall rest both sweet and sound.
Let no heart for me be aching,
Christ will see to my awaking.
Happiness on every tongue—
After winter's icy chains
Lose their hold upon the plains;
When the waters, rippling on,
Tell the power of winter gone—
Spring leads him her willing slave,
Then lay me in the quiet grave;
Loved ones, do not come and weep,
For I shall only be asleep;
Roses heap upon the mound,
And I shall rest both sweet and sound.
Let no heart for me be aching,
Christ will see to my awaking.
| Morning Glories : | |