Let all the flowers wake to life;
  Let all the songsters sing;
Let everything that lives on earth
  Become a joyous thing.

    Wake up, thou pansy, purple-eyed,
  And greet the dewy spring;
Swell out, ye buds, and o’er the earth
  Thy sweetest fragrance fling.

    Why dost thou sleep, sweet violet?
  The earth has need of thee;
Wake up and catch the melody
  That sounds from sea to sea.

    Ye stars, that dwell in noonday skies,
  Shine on, though all unseen;
The great White Throne lies just beyond,
  The stars are all between.

    Ring out, ye bells, sweet Easter bells,
  And ring the glory in;
Ring out the sorrow, born of earth—
  Ring out the stains of sin.

    O banners wide, that sweep the sky,
  Unfurl ye to the sun;
And gently wave about the graves
  Of those whose lives are done.

    Let peace be in the hearts that mourn—
  Let “Rest” be in the grave;
The Hand that swept these lives away
  Hath power alone to save.

    Ring out, ye bells, sweet Easter bells,
  And ring the glory in;
Ring out the sorrow, born of earth—
  Ring out the stains of sin.

                The world is a beautiful place 
                                                           to be born into 
if you don’t mind happiness 
                                             not always being 
                                                                        so very much fun 
       if you don’t mind a touch of hell
                                                       now and then
                just when everything is fine
                                                             because even in heaven
                                they don’t sing 
                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place
                                                           to be born into
       if you don’t mind some people dying
                                                                  all the time
                        or maybe only starving
                                                           some of the time
                 which isn’t half so bad
                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                          to be born into
               if you don’t much mind
                                                   a few dead minds
                    in the higher places
                                                    or a bomb or two
                            now and then
                                                  in your upturned faces
         or such other improprieties
                                                    as our Name Brand society
                                  is prey to
                                              with its men of distinction
             and its men of extinction
                                                   and its priests
                         and other patrolmen
                                                         and its various segregations
         and congressional investigations
                                                             and other constipations
                        that our fool flesh
                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
                                                           for a lot of such things as
         making the fun scene
                                                and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
                                         and singing low songs of having 
                                                                                      inspirations
and walking around 
                                looking at everything
                                                                  and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
                              and even thinking 
                                                         and kissing people and
     making babies and wearing pants
                                                         and waving hats and
                                     dancing
                                                and going swimming in rivers
                              on picnics
                                       in the middle of the summer
and just generally
                            ‘living it up’

Yes
   but then right in the middle of it
                                                    comes the smiling
                                                                                 mortician

                                           

More lovely is my love
     Than yonder dove
        Who flies so free.
Her voice is sweeter far
     Than larks' notes are.
        Ah, dear is she.

She sitteth in the sun,
     And every one
        Smiles up to God—
As when a lily rare
     Springeth for prayer
        Out of the sod.

Her hair enweaves the light
     In woof as bright
        As saints' brows wear.
Her soul through morning eyes
     Explores the skies,
        For truth is there.

Blest with glad thoughts, she waits
     At life's swung gates
        The call of love—
God's love or man's—ah me!
     How white is she—
        My flower, my dove!

How white is she! O heart,
     Craven thou art.
        Hark thee— be stilled!
The highest ranks of heaven—
     God's circles seven—
        Christ's love hath filled.

God hath no need of her;
     She does not stir
        When wide skies shine.
She lives for love. Awhile
     Her solemn smile
        Is ours— is mine!