TO A CHILD.You little madonna, so very demure!You draw me, yet awe me:As warning, half scorning,That kissing a face so religiously pureIs almost a sacrilege, I may be sure.Yet, awed as I am, I but love you the more.You meet me and greet meSerenely and queenly;And image so sweetly the one I adoreWhen She was a child in the ages of yore.Her name it is Mary Regina—your own.You share it and wear itAs flower its dowerOf fragrance—predestined hereafter, full-blown,To reign with the lilies that circle Her throne.Be fragrant for me, then, O lily! and pray—Each hour, little flower,Exhaling availingPetitions—to Mary the Queen of your May,To breathe on my Autumn your pureness to-day.
TO A CHILD.You little madonna, so very demure!You draw me, yet awe me:As warning, half scorning,That kissing a face so religiously pureIs almost a sacrilege, I may be sure.Yet, awed as I am, I but love you the more.You meet me and greet meSerenely and queenly;And image so sweetly the one I adoreWhen She was a child in the ages of yore.Her name it is Mary Regina—your own.You share it and wear itAs flower its dowerOf fragrance—predestined hereafter, full-blown,To reign with the lilies that circle Her throne.Be fragrant for me, then, O lily! and pray—Each hour, little flower,Exhaling availingPetitions—to Mary the Queen of your May,To breathe on my Autumn your pureness to-day.
You little madonna, so very demure!You draw me, yet awe me:As warning, half scorning,That kissing a face so religiously pureIs almost a sacrilege, I may be sure.Yet, awed as I am, I but love you the more.You meet me and greet meSerenely and queenly;And image so sweetly the one I adoreWhen She was a child in the ages of yore.Her name it is Mary Regina—your own.You share it and wear itAs flower its dowerOf fragrance—predestined hereafter, full-blown,To reign with the lilies that circle Her throne.Be fragrant for me, then, O lily! and pray—Each hour, little flower,Exhaling availingPetitions—to Mary the Queen of your May,To breathe on my Autumn your pureness to-day.
You little madonna, so very demure!
You draw me, yet awe me:As warning, half scorning,
That kissing a face so religiously pureIs almost a sacrilege, I may be sure.
Yet, awed as I am, I but love you the more.
You meet me and greet meSerenely and queenly;
And image so sweetly the one I adoreWhen She was a child in the ages of yore.
Her name it is Mary Regina—your own.
You share it and wear itAs flower its dower
Of fragrance—predestined hereafter, full-blown,To reign with the lilies that circle Her throne.
Be fragrant for me, then, O lily! and pray—
Each hour, little flower,Exhaling availing
Petitions—to Mary the Queen of your May,To breathe on my Autumn your pureness to-day.