Poems (Hoffman)/Resurrection
For works with similar titles, see Resurrection.
RESURRECTION
I took a tiny pansy seed And laid it in the moldThen waited patiently to see The first green leaves unfold.Time passed and from the silent sod There came no living soundBut soon the little embryo Appeared above the ground,It grew in pride and beauty Kissed by sunbeams, washed by showers,'Till Summer came and robed it In a wealth of snowy flowers;And now, as if in thankfulness For life and beauty given,My pure, sweet, waxen pansies lift Their purple eyes to heaven.
I took the silent chrysalis So motionless and stillAnd laid it very carefully Upon my window-sillWhere brightly shone from out the east The first beams of the sun,And in those narrow prison walls A wondrous change begun,One morn a brilliant butterfly Flew gaily 'round my room,Burst were the bonds that bound it, Deserted was its tomb,With beauty, grace and loveliness It cheered the Summer hoursAnd fed upon the nectar Stored in the fragrant flowers.
I stood beside a casket The gem had soared awayTo join in Heaven's diadem A glittering galaxy,But lingering o'er the casket I thought of days now fledAnd of one who bore no likeness To the changed and faded dead,And I seemed to see the merriment That sparkled in her eyeAnd to hear again the merry laugh I heard in days gone by,And I thought how soon the casket Hid in the earth's embraceWould fade away, nor leave behind In memory's hall a trace;And as a last long tribute That friendship's hand could payEre to the lonely tomb they bore The cold and icy clay,I plucked my fragile pansies To lay upon her bierAnd bade them carry with them The language of a tear.Emblems of angel purity Could angels be more fair?And as their sweet-breathed incense Was flung upon the airFaith whispered: "Though not on the earth Yet in a heavenly fane,The resurrected casket Shall hold the gem again." O little seed interred in earth Thy wondrous change is wrought!O butterfly, the chrysalis Was once thy burial spot!Both from a dark and gloomy grave To life and beauty bornO moldering clay, thou too shalt have A resurrection morn!
And lovelier shall the seraph be Than butterfly or flower,And holier shall the voices be That bless that waking hour;For though the butterfly and flower May sink 'neath Winter's frostAnd though their bright symbolic forms May be forever lostYet when the soul shall gather up The ashes of her clayMan shall through endless years defy The empire of decay.