THE MONTH OF OUR LADY
The daffodils dance at the dawning,
The may bells make clamor and sing;
What, then, is this season, good mother,
When flowers such loveliness bring?
It is the sweet month of Our Lady,
Whose Son is our Savior and King.
The violets waft their faint incense,
In glory the gill blooms blow;
What, then, is this season, dear mother,
That lilies are sisters of snow?
It is the rich month of Our Lady,
When beauty and loveliness flow.
The south wind's a song of love's triumph,
Twined round a child's laugh in the lane;
What, then, is this season, O mother!
When fragrance grows vocal in rain?
It is the lush month of Our Lady,
Madonna of bliss and of pain.
Like cordons of honor, the poplars,
That stand, rigged in green, in the night,
Let us form, then, for Mary, O mother!
Our own little pageant of white.
It is the glad month of Our Lady,
Earth's fairest, and Heaven's delight!
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