In every trembling bud and bloom That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword, I see Thee come from out the tomb, Thou risen Lord.
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.
Cartes Hanson Towne.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.