I

Madonna — though the whitened meads across
No breath to-day of balmy zephyrs floats,
Nor mirthful melody from feathered throats
Falls from the wayside trees, whose branches toss
Their naked arms above the frozen fosse;
Albeit, that the gardens and the moats
Beneath the ermine of their winter coats,
Sigh for the flowers and sorrow for their loss —
This sombre season speaks of thee withal.
For in the winds which whistle as they blow,
And in the flakes which eddy as they fall
On the broad bosom of the fields below,
Voices there are which whisper, and recall
The legend of our Lady of the Snow.

II

" Hail; Full of grace," such was the salutation,
Dear Virgin-Mother, that the angel spoke
When the strange greeting of his lips awoke
Thy soul, enrapt in holy contemplation,
From the delights of that sweet meditation
In which it loved to linger and invoke
His aid, who placed on thee a special yoke
That blessed morn of the Annunciation.
And lo, each spring-time, when the early grasses
Call on the sleeping flowers to show their face,
All the world over, ere the winter passes,
And March to April yields reluctant place,
Thy children honour thee with votive masses,
And, like the angel, hail thee " Full of grace."