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Earth wakens from her dream of death,
For in her ancient bosom hide
The rose tints of a new-born May,
And Earth is glorified!
She Weaves a gorgeous blossom-Cloak
For all the old and ragged trees,
And bids the leaflets on the elms
To dance upon the breeze.
She covers up her marks of age
With mossy banks and rivulets,
And young lambs gambol in her fields
Among the violets.
Are not the mysteries of May
But lovely symbols of the birth
Of One who spread the light of life
Upon a dying earth?
The Christ-child was a tender bud,
Unfolding in the light of dawn,
and bursting into perfect bloom
For all to gaze upon.
And Love broke through the crust of souls
And gave to earth a living stream
Where we, the flock, may quench our thirst
With happiness supreme.
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