In each Ave they whisper the deep Celtic tenderness lingers,
Like a sweet phrase in song that is echoed and echoed again.
Marching down the white road with the sun in the noon of his splendor
Are the children, with joy in the blue of their innocent eyes;
In their hearts is a song, breaking forth into words that are tender,
Unto her with the gold of the stars and the blue of the skies.
In the still summer air there’s a chorus of minstrelsy breaking,
There are flashes of gold with a flutter and waving of wings:
Mary’s birds are they, come with the dawn, all the green woods forsaking,
Every heart in them breaking for love with the message it brings.