“Yours with a nearness never known
   While parted by the veils of sense;
   Infinite knowledge, joy intense,
 A love which is not love alone,

 “But faith perfected, vision free,
   And patience limitless and wise—­
   Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise! 
 And dare to be as glad as we!”

 We do rejoice, we do give thanks,
   O blessed ones, for all your gain,
   As dimly through these mists of pain
 We catch the gleaming of your ranks.

 We will arise, with zeal increased,
   Blending, the while we strive and grope,
   Our paler festival of Hope
 With your Fruition’s perfect feast.

 Bend low beloved, against the blue;
   Lift higher still the lilies fair,
   Till, following where our treasures are,
 We come to join the feast with you.

BIND-WEED.

 In the deep shadow of the porch
   A slender bind-weed springs,
 And climbs, like airy acrobat,
   The trellises, and swings
 And dances in the golden sun
   In fairy loops and rings.

 Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,
   Like pearly chalices,
 Hold cooling fountains, to refresh
   The butterflies and bees;
 And humming-birds on vibrant wings
   Hover, to drink at ease.

 And up and down the garden-bed,
   Mid box and thyme and yew,
 And spikes of purple lavender,
   And spikes of larkspur blue,
 The bind-weed tendrils win their way,
   And find a passage through.

 With touches coaxing, delicate,
   And arts that never tire,
 They tie the rose-trees each to each,
   The lilac to the brier,
 Making for graceless things a grace,
   With steady, sweet desire.

 Till near and far the garden growths. 
   The sweet, the frail, the rude,
 Draw close, as if with one consent,
   And find each other good,
 Held by the bind-weed’s pliant loops,
   In a dear brotherhood.

 Like one fair sister, slender, arch,
   A flower in bloom and poise,
 Gentle and merry and beloved,
   Making no stir or noise,
 But swaying, linking, blessing all
   A family of boys.

APRIL.

 Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping,
   Comes a voice all clamorous with despair;
 It is April, crying sore and weeping,
   O’er the chilly earth, so brown and bare.

 “When I went away,” she murmurs, sobbing,
   “All my violet-banks were starred with blue;
 Who, O, who has been here, basely robbing
   Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?

 “Who has reft the robin’s hidden treasure,—­
   All the speckled spheres he loved so well? 
 And the buds which danced in merry measure
   To the chiming of the hyacinth’s bell?

 “Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying? 
   And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair,
 Like the spray from silver fountains playing,
   Where the elm-tree’s column rose in air?