Shamrocks were better for an Irish queen;
Yet, being otherwhere than shamrocks grow
One deems it not inadequate to throw
The poor best blossom from one's little green
Before the feet of her who walks serene
Upon her highway, passing to and fro
Among her people, leading them to know
What wise, grave, true and sweet things life may mean.
No more upon our baser bodily sight
There breaks the rapture of the brooding Dove;
But here and there are teachers touched with might
And filled with gifts, devoted from above;
We owe them duty, and they bring us light
And healing leaves of Faith and Hope and Love.