A DRIZZLING EASTER MORNING

And he is risen? Well, be it so . . . And still the pensive lands complain, And dead men wait as long ago, As if, much doubting, they would know What they are ransomed from, before They pass again their sheltering door.

I stand amid them in the rain, While blusters vex the yew and vane; And on the road the weary wain Plods forward, laden heavily; And toilers with their aches are fain For endless rest—though risen is he.