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.