O trees, rejoicing trees,
     Dear children of the Lord,
    I thank you for the ministries
     Which ye to me accord;
      New life and light
      Burst from my wintry night!

    O friend, rejoicing friend,
     A better poem thou
    To hint the joys that have no end
     Through gladness here and now. 
      Be thou to me
      Perpetual prophecy!

XCIV.

    The battle is set,
     The field to be won;
    What foes have you met,
     What work have you done? 
    To courage alone
     Does victory come;
    To coward and drone
     Nor country nor home!

XCV.

    For thee, of blessed name,
    I ask not wealth or fame,
    Nor that thy path may be
    From toil and trouble free;
    For toil is everywhere,
    Some trouble all must bear,
    And wealth and fame are naught,
    With better stuff unwrought—­
    I crave for thy dear heart
    Eternal Duty’s part. 
    For then indeed I know
    Thy pathway here below
    Will bloom with roses fair,
    And beauty everywhere;
    And this will be enough
    When winds are wild and rough,
    To keep thy heart in peace.

XCVI

    All things to-day have voices,
    To tell the joy of heaven,
    Which unto earth is given;
    This Winter flower rejoices,
    This snowy hellebore
    Which blooms for evermore
    On merry Christmas Day,
    Reminding us of One
    Here born a Virgin’s Son,
    To take our sins away. 
    The death its leaves within
    Is but the death of sin;
    Which death to die was born
    The pure and guiltless Child
    Who Justice reconciled
    And oped the gates of morn,
    What time a crimson flame
    Throughout a word of shame
    Did purge away the dross,
    And leave the blood-red gold,
    Whose worth can not be told,
    He purchased on the cross! 
    And thus a prophecy
    Of Him on Calvary,
    Who takes our sins away,
    Is this fair snow-white flower
    Which has of death the power,
    And blooms on Christmas Day.

XCVII.

    True friendship writes thee here
      A birthday souvenir: 
    All blessings on thee, dear,
      For this and many a year!

XCVIII.

    A myth that grew within the brain
      Relates that Eden’s bowers
    Did not, ’mid all their wealth, contain
      The glory of the flowers;

    Because there were no opened eyes
      To take that glory in,
    The sweet and innocent surprise
      Which looks rebuke to sin;