May Poetry
May Poetry
Our Lady of the May
To Crown the Queen of May
The Gift of the Springtime
The May Queen
Galilean May
Our Lady of May
May Day Pageant
In May
Mary's Month (Dennis John Burns)
The May Magnificat (G.M. Hopkins)
May Altar
The Month of Our Lady
May in Bloom
May Crown
Mary's Month (Naomi Burton)
May
The Month of Mary
Our Lady of the Flowers
May – a Month for Our Lady
Mary – Queen of Creation
Praise for May's Queen
May Is for Mary
Hail, Queen of May!
The Patient Gardener
Queen of the May
Queen of May
May Time
To the Queen of May
Anticipation
The Month of May
Mary
Another Maytime
May Blessing
Our Lady of the May
O Flower of flowers, Our Lady of the May!
Thou gavest us the World's one Light of Light:
Under the stars, amid the snows, He lay;
While Angels, through the Galilean night
Sang glory and sang peace:
Nor doth their singing cease,
For thou their Queen and He their King sit crowned
Above the stars, above the bitter snows;
They chant to thee, the Lily, to Him the Rose,
With white Saints kneeling round.
Gone is cold night: thine now are spring and day:
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
Thou gavest us the blessed Christmas mirth:
And now, not snows, but blossoms, light thy way;
We give thee the fresh flower-time of the earth.
These early flowers we bring,
Are angels of the spring,
Spirits of gracious rain and light and dew.
Nothing so like to thee the whole earth yields,
As these pure children of her vales and fields,
Bright beneath skies of blue.
Hail Holy Queen! Their fragrant breathings say:
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
Breathe from God's garden of eternal flowers
Blessing, when we thy little children pray:
Let thy soul's grace steal gently over ours.
Send on us dew and rain,
That we may bloom again,
Nor wither in the dry and parching dust.
Lift up our hearts, till with adoring eyes,
O Morning Star! We hail thee in the skies,
Star of our hope and trust!
Sweet Star, sweet Flower, there bid thy beauty stay:
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
O Flower of flowers, Our Lady of the May!
Thou leftest lilies rising from thy tomb:
They shone in stately and serene array,
Immaculate amid death's house of gloom.
Ah, let thy graces be
Sown in our dark hearts! We
Would make our hearts gardens for thy dear care:
Watered from wells of Paradise, and sweet
With balm winds flowing from the Mercy Seat,
And full of heavenly air:
While music ever in thy praise should play,
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
Not only for ourselves we plead, God's Flower!
Look on thy blinded children, who still stray,
Lost in this pleasant land, thy chosen Dower!
Send us a perfect spring:
Let faith arise and sing,
And England from her long, cold winter wake.
Mother of Mercy! Turn upon her need
Thine eyes of mercy: be there spring indeed:
So shall thine Angels make
A starrier music, than our hearts can say,
O Flower of flowers, our Lady of the May!
– Lionel Johnson
Thérèse, M. I Sing of a Maiden: The Mary Book of Verse. New York: Macmillan, 1947.
We hunted through the mountains,
The meadows and the town
To find some shining jewels
To make our Queen a crown.
We dug the earth for diamonds
And polished them with care;
But vanquished was their luster
When laid within her hair.
The seven seas we sounded,
And strained the densest sands
To find a pearl to rival
The whiteness of her hands.
The glowing gold was blackened
When brought before her feet.
And silver in her shadow
Was sordid as the street.
The emeralds lost their greenness
Like plants who knew not rains.
And rubies paled like warriors
Who fall with bursting veins.
Twas then that we remembered
How men were once in awe
To see a Babe of beauty,
Whose jewels were some straw.
So we went and robbed a manger,
And crowned the Queen of May
With a wreath that we had woven
From homely strands of hay.
– T.H. Cosgrove
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Mother Nature had painted
A ballroom for fairy queens,
With draperies of weeping willows,
And music from babbling streams.
Where the fairy knight waltzed with a princess,
And drank from a goblet of gold;
When the air was scented with perfume-
Those were the Mays of old.
When after the fall of evening,
Into the hush of night,
I'd creep from my bed to dreamland,
With fire fairies for light.
Down through the lane of maples,
Down through lilac row,
Where butterflies stood as sentries-
That's where I used to go.
Lanterns were strung from the moonbeams,
A rose bush surrounded the throne
Of the loveliest fairy princess,
A dreamland ever owned.
Her eyes were filled with star dust,
Her hair was the gold of the sun,
And she danced with the grace of a bluebird,
Till the night of her fairies was done.
Perhaps you have heard of these splendors,
Perhaps you have seen them as I,
Dance in the mist of twilight,
Under the evening sky.
But if you've not dreamed in the May time,
Of fairies, and moonlight, and love,
You've missed the gift of springtime,
Granted by Mary above.
So tonight as the shadows start falling,
Say a prayer to the Queen of the May,
That you may dream of fairies and moonlight
Till the rose-colored dawn of day.
– Gay Lowry
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.
She wears sunlight in her hair
And violets in her eyes
And her cheeks are the petals of a rose.
She bears Love on her arm
And lilies are her feet,
And they carry Life wherever she goes.
There are graces on her lips
And rainbows on her robes
And her wreath is the coronet of May.
She is Fairy Queen of earth-
The wand at her heart
Is a Bud from the Triune Bouquet.
She is Mother, Queen, and Maid,
And God is her Child,
And her Courts are the meadows where They play
And her Courts
Forever and for aye.
She is Mary full of grace.
She is Queen of Eternal May.
– Marie Fischer
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Into the hills of Galilee
Our Lady went one day,
Lured by the wonder-woven bloom
Dropped from the looms of May.
Slim lilies leaned to touch her gown.
Curving through delicate air,
A fledgling thrush flew to her hand,
Butterflies to her hair.
She told a secret to the winds
That brushed her garment hem-
The tear-wet, pitying winds that blew
Up from Jerusalem.
And as she spoke a little Name,
Whispering low and sweet,
A golden surf of buttercups
Broke against her feet.
The winds and flowers of Galilee,
Grown wistful of her face,
Still wait her footfall at the May-
Gentle, and full of grace.
– M. Thérèse
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
How like a timid virgin comes the May,
In verdure robed and crown'd with chaplets sweet
Rifling earth's choicest treasures, to lay
Rich spoils of beauty at Our Lady's feet!
And, her to honor, from her teeming stores
Of leaf and bud, in greening garths and bowers,
Nature her lavish offering outpours
Of delicate blossoms and of fragile flowers.
The south wind whispers and young grasses stir,
Renascent blooms from crypts of winter rise,
Lily and rose awake to worship her
Who is the peerless Rose of Paradise.
Spirits of Spring - crocus and daffodil
And violet and lilac fresh and frail -
At Mary's shrine their fragrance sweet distill
And in her praise their passionate souls exhale.
Madonna! Mother of our Christ and Lord!
Now in the opening year's auroral prime
Heaven and earth in rapturous accord
Hail thee and hymn with canticles sublime.
All innocent things, and all things pure and fair,
Hasten their homage at thy throne to pay;
And we, thy children, come with love and pray'r-
Oh, hear and help us, Lady of the May!
Touch us to harmony with the gracious hours,
And from our lives all discords harsh efface!
Help us to grow in beauty, like the flowers,
Responsive to the Godhead's quickening grace!
Oh, fill us with the season's peace and love,
And guide our feet in virtue's arduous way
That we may tread the paths that lead above
To thy dear Son, O Lady of the May!
–P.J. Coleman
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Above all the blue, till the banners that blow out of
Heaven
Have not space in their infinite fields to possess or
contain it,
And the universe finds itself barren of throne or
dominion to hold it,
We speak of that Love that is wholly divine and
eternal.
And so it is fit--we return to the day's first beginnings
With singing of praises to one, of the ages beloved
Above every other, with crowning of one to whom
earthful
Of crowns would seem little. Our Mother, Our Mary,
our Silver
And ceaseless--sung Constellation, hung high in the
Heaven,
Hung higher than blue. And her to whom high love
was given
By Infinite Lover, we honor and bless! We recall her
Who is matchless with Spring by her beauty and life
ever-living!
This one, this unequaled, most lovely and living of
women,
This fairest idea of God whom no other so sweetly
delighted,
We praise and salute! Her than whom God for His
Son's earthly Mother
None else would have chosen, so pure and so stainless
of sinning.
Most beautiful thought in the world, we acclaim once
more Queen,
God's Queen and our Queen and the Queen of the
Spring-ruling kingdom,
And Queen of the world, and Queen of the white-
jeweled Heaven,
Of Saints in their glory and spirits angelic and shining,
Queen Mary of Heavenly May, O remember we love
you!
–Betty Odell
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946
In May, sweet roses scent the air,
And glistening insects dart and blare.
Sweet springtime blossoms far and wide.
Dame Nature leaves stern tasks aside,
To garnish earth with tender care.
This happy month is ever fair;
As all things take the utmost care
To honor God's own Virgin Bride
In May.
At dusk, sweet Aves, heavenly prayer,
Attest men's love and are their share
In praising her, while side by side
Their voices sound to show their pride
In Mary, Queen of all that's fair
In May.
– F. Sackett
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Blue skies,
Blue waters, blue as Mary's eyes
God scatters with a lavish hand,
On every land.
Still night,
Made lovely with soft, silver light,
God wraps about the world when day
Has slipped away.
Each field
Holds up a golden-flowered shield
Against the shining shafts of sun;
Yet each is won.
Bright rain
God spills to bring to earth again
New freshness. Then like sudden tears
It disappears.
Green trees,
The vagabonding summer breeze,
The golden days and silver nights
His will unites
In one.
And when His work of love is done,
His will decrees a holiday,
The month of May.
And why?
That she, as pure as summer sky,
Who found within an earth-born Boy
What earth contained of joy and pain
Might find her full content of joy
On earth again.
– Dennis John Burns
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
May is Mary's month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why:
Her feasts follow reason,
Dated due to season-
Candlemas, Lady Day:
But the Lady Month, May,
Why fasten that upon her,
With a feasting in her honor?
Ask of her, the mighty mother:
Her reply puts this other
Question: What is Spring?
Growth in every thing-
All things rising, all things sizing
Mary sees, sympathizing
With that world of good,
Nature's motherhood.
Well but there was more than this:
Spring's universal bliss
Much, had much to say
To offering Mary May.
– Gerard Manley Hopkins
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Beneath her statue in its niche,
(Let busy skeptics gaze and glower!)
Engather flowers, fresh and sweet,
Proclaim this Mary's hour....
Poppies for her mother-heart
Wounded past the mind's belief,
Lilies for her purity,
Lilacs for her grief,
For this the fairest blooms were plucked
And placed below her image there,
To offer beauty as a gift
And fragrance as a prayer.
–F.H.W., Columbia Journal. May 1954.
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 gillblooms 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!
– J. Corson Miller, The Magnificat, volume LXX, number 1, May, 1942.
May is so beautiful:
Orchards are fair;
Branches of fruit trees
Make gardens of air.
Flowers of fragrance
Bloom in the light;
Fall like the snowflakes
Showering white.
Orchards of heaven
Grow with a grace,
And like a blessing
Perfume the place.
Each tree in blossom,
Each lovely spray,
In this month of Our Lady,
Bring glory to May.
– Helen Maring, The Magnificat, volume LXVIII, number 1, May, 1941.
All early in the morning
I rose to greet the day,
And underneath my window
I saw a Child at play.
The robins were not fearful
Of one so mild and meek;
They lighted on His shoulder
And nested at His cheek.
He picked the clustering roses,
The lily in its sheath,
The long-stemmed purple violets,
And wove them in a wreath.
And then I saw a Lady
Come walking in the dew;
Her robe was white as starshine,
Her mantle was deep blue.
And as the Child approached her,
All sweetly she knelt down
And bent her head, receiving
His fragrant, flowery crown.
Helen Connolly, The Magnificat, volume LXVI, number 1, May, 1940.
Now that the sun is shining again, and at night
the sky can be seen in the moonshine
Knowing that May is Mary's month is easy.
But what of the days of heavy skies, of biting
North East wind and rain lashing the halyards -
Have you ever seen a brand new flag not only torn
into ribbons but literally braided by the wind -
Is Mary, then, part of this elemental fury?
Perhaps, yes, in the sense that we know she is there,
always the place of calm, right in the center of
the storminess of life. We know she is waiting,
ready to comfort, to lead us on to her Son
when hearts are heavy, when sorrow confuses us.
We even know she understands how hard it is to say
"Hail, Holy Queen" when you are soaked to the skin
and tired and cross. How easy on a day
when the air is clear and bright, when the grass is green
and those laggard daffodils decide at last to show
their true color.!
Indeed in our hearts we know that never was it known
that anyone was turned away unaided by
this Springtime girl.
And how much more does that total love and forgivingness
flow from the Father, Son, and Spirit to all
who seek.
– Naomi Burton, The Church World, May 5, 1980.
Hail, sweet month of May!
Hail, bright month of May!
Bring sunshine with thee,
Chasing clouds away.
March has left us sighing
In cold and chilly blast,
April's tears have fallen,
May has come at last!
I will wander in the meadows,
I will search in sunny bowers,
I will cut sweet-scented posies,
I will twine a wreath of flowers.
The lily and the rosebud
With May I will entwine,
And lay them for an offering
Upon Our Lady's shrine.
And there is another offering
Which at Mary's feet I'll lay,
I know that she will prize it more
Than all the flowers of May,
I will pray to her to keep it
And never from it part,
And my Queen will deign to take it -
My poor, yet loving heart.
I will pray to her to guide it,
In truth and wisdom's way,
And make it pure and balmy
As the flowers which spring in May;
I will pray to her to warm it
With the sunshine of her love,
And make it fit to deck a crown
One day in heaven above.
– Anonymous
Blooming flowers and singing birds
Hail the month of May;
The springing leaves and sunshine
Fairest tributes pay.
Every little bright-winged bird
Its sweet story sings;
Every flower and blossom
Richest perfume flings.
And every leaf upon the trees,
Every dewdrop fair,
Every whisper, hushed, and still,
Of sweet summer air,
Tells the same soft pleading story
To Mary, full of grace -
How her children so far from her,
Long to see her face.
– Anonymous, The Catholic Record, volume 5, May, 1873
It's Maying tide all over the earth,
And Maying is thine, Mary, thy very own,
Thine is the rose and the phlox, the tulip and pansy,
Thine is the iris that blooms near dark ponds,
Thine is the cornflower in fields of wheat,
Thine the morning glory that decks the hedges,
Thine the violet that scents the woods,
Thine the anemone under the bushes,
Thine the honeysuckle courted by bees,
Thine the daisies, thy earth-grown stars,
Thine the campanula, blue like thy mantle,
Thine the shy nenuphar on silent lakes,
Thine the forget-me-nots in cloistered gardens,
Thine the edelweiss on Alpine crags,
Thine the sunflowers of bright Andalusia,
Thine the chrysanthemum on Nippon's shore,
Thine the lotus on the banks of the Ganges;
Narcissus whispers thy sacred name,
Carnations recall thy Son's deep love.
– Anonymous, The Christian Family, May, 1950.
The birch is thy sister, thy brother the oak,
The palm tree stands as thy royal symbol,
The beech, the olive, the yew and the fir
Remember the days when thou walkedst beneath them.
For thee sounds the meadow lark's joyous song,
The song of the robin, the throstle and finch,
The plaintive song of queen nightingale,
The bells of all lands ring out for thee.
The ocean reflects thy image, the moon,
Lakes mirror the blue of thine eyes,
The wave of white fountains symbolize
The sacred waters of thy fair graces.
Thou art the white Madonna of France,
Thou art the brown Madonna of Spain,
Thou art the black Madonna of Poland,
That maidens love and mothers revere,
That kindles love in the hearts of men.
– Anonymous, The Christian Family, May, 1950.
To greet thee is greeting all human hearts
To whom thou hast opened God's treasure troves
Of joy and salvation, of hope and peace.
Thou art more fair than Eve in her beauty,
More beautiful than star-like Esther,
More valiant then Judith, the brave,
For thou wert with God in the beginning
of His ways,
Before he made the mountains and the sea,
Delight of the Triune ever plating before Him,
First-born of all His beloved creatures,
Sweet like the dawn and mild like the dusk;
Thy name is written into the sky
A sign that shall nevermore be erased.
– Anonymous, The Christian Family and Our Missions, May, 1950.
Grace was poured out over thy lips
When thou cam'st forth like the
morning rising
Like the rainbow smiling over the
clouds.
The daughters of Sion saw thee
walking
And called thee blessed, eternal
woman
Whose eyes are pools of mystery
and mercy,
Whose mouth only utters words of wisdom,
Whose mother hands spread only blessing.
Blessed is thy womb that bore God's Son,
Who came leaping from the hills of heaven,
Fleet like a young roe to kiss thy brow
And call thee mother, and winter ceased on the earth;
Forever the Spirit's bride and the Father's
Beloved daughter unlike all others,
God's turtledove, God's white swan,
Woman clothed with the sun and the moon at thy feet,
And a crown of twelve stars upon thy head
Sparkling like gold and the hue of the crocus.
– Anonymous, The Christian Family and Our Missions, May, 1950.
Every tree, every flower is a poem for thee,
Every landscape is richer when thy shrines grace it;
Dost thou watch the lamps that burn at thy grottoes?
Dost thou hark to the chorus that swells through the ages?
Dost thou hear the canticles that rise from thy children,
Virgin of virgins and Mother of mothers,
Royal priestess descended from Abraham and David?
Chosen from all eternity queen rose of the world?
Remember, O Mary, despite all thy mildness,
Thou art terrible like an army in battle array;
Arise from thy bridal chambers in heaven,
Chase away the dark clouds that shut out the sun,
The mists that hover over the rivers and brooks,
Send a new spring full of shining flowers,
Spring in the hearts of youths and maidens,
Spring in the souls of men and women,
Spring in the darkened minds of the rulers,
That thy prophecy be not made in vain,
That this generation, too, will call thee blessed.
– Anonymous, The Christian Family and Our Missions, May, 1950.
Hail, Queen of May,
Hail, Queen of May,
Let children's eyes again brighten with hope,
Let mothers fondle their babes in joy,
Let roses bloom again on the Moldava,
Let lilies sprout on the shores of the Volga,
But, oh, I hear the mocking laugh from the mouth of hell,
The dragon of old, thy archenemy Satan,
Has cast a blight on the greening earth,
Has muted thy praise in a thousand places,
Has caused the redeemed to rebel against God
And His Anointed, thy own divine Son.
Crush his head with thy virgin foot,
All powerful Virgin, Mother of Christ,
We remember thy past deeds of grace,
Thy eyes were red with tears at La Salette,
Thy lips spoke words of warning at Lourdes,
And asked for prayer and penance at Fatima's cave.
All powerful Virgin Mother of Christ,
Silence the hiss of the ugly serpent.
Pray for us all, bless us all,
Queen of May! Queen of May!
– Anonymous, The Christian Family and Our Missions, May, 1950.
Blessed Virgin,
patient gardener of my troubled heart,
clear away the thorny weed and bitter root
that thrive so boldly where they will.
Tireless advocate,
pull up the blemished vines
and poison shoots
that hinder the growth of my virtue,
so the gentle winds of love
may soothe anew my spirit.
Queen of Heaven,
make straight a path in the garden of my heart
so the Savior may shine his endless light
unto the tender green shoots
of my grateful soul.
– Anonymous
Queen of May--the days grow long,
The woods are all alive with song,
In every clime, on every shore,
The quickening buds burst forth once more,
And leaf and flower, and blossom sweet
Long to do homage at thy feet.
Queen of May--within thy hands
Thou holiest of all the scattered strands
From souls that burn and bleed, and ache,
Of eyes that weep, and hearts that break,
For, save the touch of Love Divine,
'there is no charity like thine.
Queen of May--there is one spot,
Where thousands mourn, but murmur not,
And they who dwell in that dread place
Yearn for a glimpse of thy dear face,
One hopeful promise from those eyes
That soon they may win paradise.
Queen of May--enthroned in bloom--
They wait in patience and in gloom,
Wait for the magic or thy mane,
To light the darkness, quench the flame;
Ah! bear them upward, while "We pray"
Sweet Mother, Mary, Queen of May.
– Unknown
From her throne in woodland shrine
Mary smiles on springtime's glow;
Dew-dropped lilies nod and shine,
Silver reeds pipe soft and low.
Sun-kissed messengers of spring
Melodies of welcome sing,
Queen of May.
Better far than nature's pearls
Mary loves the charming strain
Of the Aves boys and girls
Offer her with love's refrain:
"Holy Mary, holy Maid!
At your feet our hearts we've laid,
Queen of Mayl"
– Sister M. Reynoldine
May Time
'Tis quiet, early May time,
When carpets on the walk
Are formed by drifting petals
Who'd say, if they could talk:
"This is the month of Mary,
To honor her we spread.
Soft, velvety, white carpets
Where passersby must tread."
– Mary A. Lucey
To the Queen of May
If all the flowers of earth were mine,
I'd bring them all to thy dear shrine;
Ah, what a nosegay it would be,
'0 heavenly Queen of May, for thee.
If all the songbirds in the wood
I could call to this solitude,
Ah, what a concert it would be,
O heavenly Queen of May, for thee.
If all the human hearts that beat
I could assemble at thy feet,
Ah, what a wealth of love 'twould be,
O heavenly Queen of May, for thee.
– Fredrick M. Lynk
Oh, softly blow, ye breezes,
Ye breezes of the spring,
Till every blossom breaks to hear
The joyful news you bring,
The news that winters dreary reign
Is dead and passed away,
That now the sun will shine upon
Our Lady's month of May.
Oh, sing ye birds of springtime
In every glade and glen,
Let every warbler of the wood
Take heart and sing again,
Until your chorus far and wide
Makes musical the day;
From hill and dale, oh sing and hail
Our Lady's month of May.
Oh, softly flow, ye streamlets,
By wood and meadow flow,
And whisper to the grasses all
So timidly that grow,
Yea, whisper to them all, and call
Them forth without delay,
For vale and lea must verdant be
In Mary's month of May.
– Denis A. McCarthy
Green are the leaves, and sweet are the flowers,
And rich the hues of May;
We see them in the gardens round,
And market panniers gay:
And e'en among our streets and lanes ,
And alleys we descry,
By fitful gleams, the fair sunshine,
The blue transparent sky.
Green is the grass, but wait awhile,
'Twill grow, and then will wither,
The flowerets, brightly as they smile ,
Shall perish altogether:
The merry sun, you sure would say,
It ne'er could set in gloom;
But earth's best joys have all an end
And sin, a heavy doom.
The green, green grass, the glittering grove,
The heaven's majestic dome,
They image forth a tender bower,
A more refulgent home;
They tell us of that paradise
Of everlasting rest,
And that high Tree, all flowers and fruit,
The sweetest and the best.
– Unknown
The shy loveliness of a spring violet,
The beauty of a rose in silhouette,
A white orchid, so exquisite,
Queen of May and love's requisite .
– Dorothea Costello
Is it years since the Mayday was joyous
With decking of Mary's dear shrine,
And our hopes like the bud, turning blossom--
Our hearts all attuned to the thine?
Let us banish the years for a moment,
And as children kneel at her feet,
All our love and devotion renewing,
That to Mary must ever be sweet.
Let us gather the blossoms for Mary;
They'll not be less pleasing than when
In childhood we sought out the choicest
From hillside and meadow and glen.
All the fond hopes that May then awakened
Are waiting and promise still more--
'Tis not that the years are less joyous
lf our hearts only love as of yore.
– Alice E. Byrnes
May Blessing
Above the sin-drenched marts of men,
Above the ocean's ceaseless roar,
Above the mist of glade and glen,
Above the loftiest mountains' floor,
Mary the Queen of Heaven stands
And holds up in her virgin hands
Her little Son Divine,--
And, mother of the true high-priest,
She blesses with this living host
The high, the low, the great, the least,
Until all earth feels innermost,
It has become her shrine;
Her shrine, where all hearts sing her praise,
And where all flowers bloom for her,
Where every tree in rapture sways,
And each bird is her harbinger,
Until the Saviour's holy peace
Reigns fondly over lands and seas.
– Fredrick M. Lynk
All About Mary includes a variety of content, much of which reflects the expertise, interpretations and opinions of the individual authors and not necessarily of the Marian Library or the University of Dayton. Please share feedback or suggestions with marianlibrary@udayton.edu.