Poems (Kimball)/Easter-even Violets

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

EASTER-EVEN VIOLETS.

FOR Easter Day, O Lilies white,
 Your shrinèd splendors keep!
But while the sweet, sad, waning light
 Of Easter-Even fades,
 Amid the sacred shades
 Where Sorrow comes to weep,—
Nor weeps in vain
Since Hope is born of very Pain
(And Pain its pangs in joy forgets)—
There breathe your balm, sweet Violets!
Dear twilight-flowers whose lovely hue,
More tender than the tenderest blue
Yet not as purple sad, appears
Most like transformèd tears.

"A little while!" ye seem to sigh;
 "And yet a little while!" ye say;
 "The stone shall noiseless roll away:
Unseen across the midnight sky
 Twilight and Daybreak run to meet!
Already angels throng the air,
And twain descending kneel,
 Veilèd in awe, at head and feet
Of that new tomb whose broken seal
The wondering Morning shall reveal.
 And 'He is risen!' declare.
 Sweet odors—sweeter than the sweet
Of violets and lilies blent,
The sweet of holy slumber spent—
 Stealing from vesture folded fair
 And fragrant with the Lord's own care,
Wherein His Blessed Body lay
Till break of day,
Shall make most sweet the graves of those
 Who, entering into Paradise,
Do sleep in Him who died and rose—
 In whom they, too, shall rise."