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I love to see her well-worn beads

Slip through her tender hand;

They fall like rich enchanted seeds

Cast in a fruitful land.

From each small bead full silently

A floweret fair doth grow—

A winsome thing with soft bright eye,

Yet strong in grace, I know.

Wild winds may rave and storms may shout,

Her blossoms will not fall;

The angels gird them round about

With hedgerows thick and tall.

The Blessed Mary smiles on them,

Just as, in days of yore,

She smiled when in old Bethlehem

Her little Babe she bore.

And saints adown the golden stair

With noiseless steps oft creep,

To tend these shining flowers of prayer,

When Lucy is asleep.

When autumn dies, these radiant flowers

Shall safe transplanted be,

To bloom in Eden’s greenest bowers

For all eternity.

Before the Godhead they shall raise

Their perfumes pure and sweet,

And bloom in silent hymns of praise

At Lady Mary’s feet.

—J. R. Marre.

From The Ave Maria.