Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily Soft-scented in the air for yards around;
Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief In the young pregnant year at Eastertime;
And many thought it was a sacred sign, And some called it the resurrection flower;
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.
