Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome,
Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine—
A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home,
On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.
There oft, in saddened times and weary hours,
To secret sanctuary do I flee,
Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers,
To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;
For there, though not a Roman devotee,
Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.