Poem by Charles Frederick White

An Easter Morn

Brightly now the sun is shining
On this Easter Sabbath morn:
Voices heav'nward are inclining;
And the sky's without a scorn.
Beautiful white clouds are moving
"Cross the broad expanse of blue
Which o'erhangs the earth, so soothing,
Reflecting its azure hue
In the ponds, the streams and rivers,
Lending color to their depth.
In the breeze the dead grass quivers
As if it received fresh breath.
Mildness hovers in the weather,
Gently nursing Easter's form
As the rich and poor together
Nursed the baby which was born,
Years ago, within a manger
In the far East, we are told.
(Though He was to them a stranger,
They took Him fine stones and gold.)
Warmth and pleasantness are keeping
Hand in hand with light and air:
Through the sod the grass is creeping:
Happiness seems everywhere.
Not more perfect in the springtime
Could a day be than is this,
Stripped of all of winter's cold clime
With a touch of summer's bliss.
Yet, with all the joy and sunshine,
There's some rain beneath the sod.—
Though a life be mirthful, sometime
Through a dismal swamp it's trod.

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