Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden,
The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.
The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,
The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer
With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten—
And all the soul of all the past was there.
But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,
Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew—
They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;