I shall never again pick speedwell,
Or the young oak's green and brown,
Or the delicate white wild parsley,
Or the nettle's ivory crown.

I shall never again touch children,
With their curves of rose and snow:
Or count for a sleepy baby
Each curled-up finger and toe.

You shall hold on your lap the Christ-child,
When Mary's arms are tired:
And touch with the tips of your fingers
The flesh that the world desired.

Safe in your arms you shall hold Him,
And His eyes of shadowy blue,
And Mary's hands as she yields Him,
Shall be speedwell and nettle to you.