I know not how, dear Lady love,
To offer you my praise,
I cannot fashion as I wish
The words that I world raise.
You stand afar, celestial Queen,
The stars are in your crown,
They spangle at each gesture's path
And dust upon your gown.
Perhaps I might recall the night
You knelt beside the crib,
The night when doors and casements shut
And left a mountain's rib,
Alone, exposed, to hoard you close
Beside the new-born Child
And seek in Joseph's kindly eyes
For something worldly-mild.
To counteract such mundane chill
I hereby set my heart,
Dim mirror of an Infant's warmth,
Its flaming but a part,
A small, sad part of Endless Love
That came on Christmas day
To show a mother wonder-bright
To guide us on our way.
Robert, Cyril. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry. New York: Marist Press, 1944.