Classic Poem

Lord God, thou bidst the green things start
A new life every year, —
Out of their sunken selves they rise,
Erect and sweet and clear:
Behold the lily's pure white leaves
Unfolding by each mere!

Again the sap mounts in the fir
Through every swelling vein;
Again the clover stirs and thrills,
Responsive to the rain;
Again the tender grass makes green
The lone breast of the plain.

I hear the golden flood of song
The lark pours to the blue;
I see the strong, undaunted shoot
Pushing its brave front through
The fallen trees: O God, my God,
Let me begin anew!

Out of my old self let me rise!
For, God, if it can be
A new and nobler growth may rise
From yon decaying tree,
Surely a strong, pure life may mount
Out of this life in me.