Classic Poem

Make my songs a rosary,
Thread them on a silken string,
On thy bosom each will be
A holy thing.

They will lie abashed and dumb —
Beads within thy fingers fair.
Tell them, and they will become
Each a prayer.

Their own words will die away
If thy " paters " thou repeat,
With thy lips they all will pray,
Lady sweet.

Lift them gently bead by bead,
Thinking worthy words for each,
Touch them, and they will not need
Spoken speech.

Dearest Saint of mine thou art,
All my love to thee belongs,
Hallow with thy perfect heart
My poor songs.