All poor women and men,
  Broken-hearted and weeping,
Their dead they call on in vain,
  Quietly smiling and sleeping.

Friends, now listen and hear,
  Give over crying and grieving,
There shall come a day and a year
  When the dead shall be as the living.

There shall come a call, a footfall,
  And the golden trumpeters blowing
Shall stir the dead with their call,
  Bid them be rising and going.

Then in the daffodil weather
  Lover shall run to lover;
Friends all trooping together;
  Death and Winter be over.

Laying my bulbs in the dark,
  Visions have I of hereafter.
Lip to lip, breast to breast, hark!
  No more weeping, but laughter!

All in the April evening,
  April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
  Passed me by on the road.