And what new secrets shall our God disclose;
Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;
Or what empurpled bloom to oust the rose;
Or what strange grass to glow like angels' hair!
What pinnacles of silvery tracery,
What dizzy, rampired towers shall God devise
Of topaz, beryl and chalcedony
To make Heaven pleasant to His children's eyes!
And in what cataclysms of flame and foam
Shall the first Heaven sink—as red as sin—
When God hath cast aside His ancient home
As far too mean to house His children in.
ST. BRIGID
By Denis A. McCarthy
Brigid, the daughter of Duffy, she wasn't like other young things,
Dreaming of lads for her lovers, and twirling her bracelets and rings;
Combing and coiling and curling her hair that was black as the sloes,
Painting her lips and her cheeks that were ruddy and fresh as the rose.
Ah, 'twasn't Brigid would waste all her days in such follies as these—
Christ was the Lover she worshipped for hour after hour on her knees;
Christ and His Church and His poor,—and 'twas many a mile that she trod
