Come, my soul, let us haste to the open; Away from the jangle and soil Of the dead winter's left-over rubbish, Outworn garments and futile toil. Come out to the freshly plowed fields, Open-armed to God's renascent light, Where new things can grow and flower; Where thought like the birds has flight. Oh come, let us hail the awakening And breathe in the world's newest spring; Slip away from old walled-in repressions; Come, live and laugh, work and sing. |