We shall lose sight of heaven’s fairer crown
And find but our own likeness resting there.
Fresh with a dew bearing no stain of earth,
Thy hill-paths lead unto our Father’s hearth.
IX.
With thee, my poet, lie our souls at rest
In the soft glory of our Mother’s smile—
The Maid Immaculate, who could beguile
Her God to be a child on her pure breast.
With thee we labor that our little life