by John Banister Tabb
All that springeth from the sod
Tendeth upwards unto God;
All that cometh from the skies
Urging it anon to rise.
Winter's life-delaying breath
Leaveneth the lump of death,
Till the frailest fettered bloom
Moves the earth, and bursts the tomb.
Welcome, then, Time's threshing-pain
And the furrows where each grain,
Like a Samson, blossom-shorn,
Waits the resurrection morn.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston