From a crown of pale leaves like the thorny,
Dry crown of the passion,
Springs a fresh, tender, purple corolla,
In grace and fair fashion Like the crocus, save as in wild roses
Are clustered its anthers;
And to all eager questionings from us
Serenely it answers: -- Paschal-blossom, the simple folks call us,
For at this glad season
Our pale, purple blooms come as momentoes
Of Jesus arisen. In His hands still the prints of His passion;
And still we are born
With this circlet, in ghostly remembrance
Of his dolorous thorn. As the fold of our Lady's blue mantle,
Spite all her glad morrow,
Ever keeps in its lining's faint purple
The hint of her sorrow; The good Jesus with this has endowed us
In mystical token--
The sad tint of His bruise in His anguish,
And sweet body broken. Therefore "Paschal-flower" simple folks call us,
And at this glad season
Our buds come to them gentle reminders
Of Jesus arisen.