My heart, my arms—He finds defiled:
I am unworthy of thy Child.
Mary, Mother, charity!
Bring thy Baby back to me!
THE NIGHTINGALE
By Gerald Griffin
As the mute nightingale in closest groves
Lies hid at noon, but when day’s piercing eye
Is locked in night, with full heart beating high
Poureth her plain-song o’er the light she loves;