IX.

With thee, my poet, lie our souls at rest In the soft glory of our Mother’s smile— The Maid Immaculate, who could beguile Her God to be a child on her pure breast. With thee we labor that our little life Shall learn to lose itself, that it be found In that far, other life eternal crowned ‘Mid hero-saints whose prayers were ours in strife; Humbly with thee, our dearest Lord before, Veiled in the little, pale, and helpless round Wherewith on earth he chooseth to be crowned, We bend with love that yearneth to love more. Fond children, at the Father’s feet we kneel, Finding the love his Spirit doth reveal.