Classic Poem

The Earth is so bleak and deserted,
So cold the winds blow,
That no bud or no blossom will venture
To peep from below:
But, longing for spring time, they nestle,
Deep under the snow.

O, in May how we honored Our Lady,
Her own month of flowers!
How happy we were with our garlands
Through all the spring hours!
All her shrines, in the church or the wayside,
Were made into bowers.

And in August — her glorious Assumption;
What feast was so bright!
What clusters of virginal lilies,
So pure and so white!
Why, the incense could scarce overpower
Their perfume that night.

And through her dear feasts of October
The roses bloomed still;
Our baskets were laden with flowers,
Her vases to fill:
Oleanders, geraniums, and myrtles,
We chose at our will.

And we know when the Purification,
Her first feast, comes round,
The early spring flowers, to greet it,
Just opening are found;
And pure, white, and spotless, the snowdrop
Will pierce the dark ground.

And now, in this dreary December,
Our glad hearts are fain
To see if Earth comes not to help us;
We seek all in vain:
Not the tiniest blossom is coming
Till Spring breathes again.

And the bright feast of Christmas is dawning,
And Mary is blest;
For now she will give us her Jesus,
Our dearest, our best,
And see where she stands, the Maid Mother,
Her Babe on her breast!

And not one poor garland to give her,
And yet now, behold,
How the Kings bring their gifts, — myrrh, and incense,
And bars of pure gold:
And the Shepherds have brought for the Baby
Some lambs from their folds.

He stretches His tiny hands towards us,
He brings us all grace;
And look at His Mother who holds Him, —
The smile on her face
Says they welcome the humblest gifts
In the manger we place.

Where love takes, let love give; and so doubt not:
Love counts but the will,
And the heart has its flowers of devotion
No winter can chill;
They who cared for " good-will " the first Christmas
Will care for it still.

In the Chaplet on Jesus and Mary,
From our hearts let us call,
At each Ave Maria we whisper
A rosebud shall fall,
And at each Gloria Patri a lily,
The crown of them all!