Poor Ellen Poem by Gerald Massey

'TIS hard to die in Spring-time,
When, to mock our bitter need,
All life around runs over
In its fullness without heed:
New life for tiniest twig on tree,
New worlds of honey for the bee,
And not one drop of dew for me
Who perish as I plead.

'Tis hard to die in Spring-time,
When it stirs the poorest clod;
The wee Wren lifts its little heart
In lusty songs to God;
And Summer comes with conquering march;
Her banners waving 'neath the arch
Of heaven, where I lie and parch—
Left dying by the road.

'Tis hard to die in Spring-time,
When the long blue days unfold,
And cowslip-coloured sunsets
Grow, like Heaven's own heart, pure gold!
Each breath of balm brings wave on wave
Of new life that would lift and lave
My Life, whose feel is of the grave,
And mingling with the mould.

But sweet to die in Spring-time,
When these lustres of the sward,
And all the breaks of beauty
Wherewith Earth is daily starr'd,
For me are but the outside show,
All leading to the inner glow
Of that strange world to which I go—
For ever with the Lord.

O sweet to die in Spring-time,
When I reach the promised Rest,
And feel His arm is round me—
Know I sink back on His breast:
His kisses close these poor dim eyes;
Soon I shall hear Him say 'Arise,'
And, springing up with glad surprise,
Shall know Him and be blessed.

'Tis sweet to die in Spring-time,
For I feel my golden year
Of summer-time eternal
Is beginning even here!
'Poor Ellen!' now you say and sigh,
'Poor Ellen!' and to-morrow I
Shall say 'Poor Mother!' and, from the sky,
Watch you, and wait you there.