Immortality.
By Jean Blewett
The fluttering leaves above his grave,
The grasses creeping toward the light,
The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
That hide the earth clods from our sight,
The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
The golden gleam of daffodil,
The violet blooming fair and free
Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,
The lily lifting up its breath
Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday -
All cry: "Where is thy sting, O death?
O grave, where is thy victory?"
Each Eastertide the old world sings
Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
And all the tender growing things
Join in her resurrection song.