How red it burns within yon crimson rose!
Deeper than fire in rubies is its hue
Of brightest blood, which, shed for me and you,
From that dear Heart has flowed, forever flows.
In waving sprays of buds, carved mountain snows,
I see her heart, forever pure and true, —
The Virgin's heart! — and in the morning dew
The tears of joy she shed when her great woes
Were lost in Heaven: and all June things speak,
From ambient perfume in the sunlit air
To trembling stalklets tipped by clover bloom,
Of Christ, His Mother, and the Heart we seek
Through tangled roads and by-ways foul or fair,
The Heart that cheers us in the deepest gloom.