| Index of Poems Dealing with Marian Apparitions | |
Bernard reads late, alone; and twilight falls
Dimming the page. Soon must the keen eyes probe
Vainly for words ... But whence has spread
This glow illuminating his cloister's walls
To stretch them to horizons past our globe?
What hand - divinely pure - is on his book?
He knew her by the light about her head,
And by the cloak of heaven that she wore -
But more
He knew her by her grave regardful look.
So stood she that swift shining moment through,
Her hand still touching where St. Bernard read
Of truth unchanged in changing time or place;
The while a corner of her mantle blue
Was folded round an earth child, and his face
Shone in the glory compassing her head.
M. Whitcomb Hess
Sr. M. Therese. I Sing of a Maiden.
New York: Macmillan Company, 1947.
Lady of Lourdes
Untouched by Adam's curse - our Mary's soul!
Like great bell tones the Pontiff's edict rings -
While every heart on earth re-sounds the word,
And all earth sings.
Comely she stands before a shy young girl
Who tells her Ave, trembling to await
The bright air broken by a word - "I am
Immaculate!"
O happy cave, majestic rock that felt
Her feet press lightly as they do in dream,
Whence waters brimmed with healing break their source,
And with life, stream.
From every countryside and city square
A troop of pilgrims crowds upon the way:
Some come to kneel in child-eyed wonderment,
Some come to pray.
She dries her children's tears as mothers do,
And pours a draught of grace from prayer-cupped hands,
That each may journey back refreshed and glad
To better lands.
O Virgin, let thy fleet compassion's spark
Light up the murky paths we stumble on;
Give us the warmth of thy embrace when earth's
Cold pain is gone.
All song and glory to our Father rise
And to the Christhead (Mary's Only Son!)
With Their swift Spirit winged with love for Both,
Three-always-One!
Raymond F. Roseliep, translator.
Sr. M. Therese. I Sing of a Maiden.
New York: Macmillan Company, 1947.
Our Lady of Lourdes
Here, lovely gems, King Winter throws
On bramble, weed, and stone,
And trailing seared bleak wild-rose
Around Our Lady's throne.
Beneath small Lourdes gray-blue sky
Cool February's airs
Encanopied in ether high
All serve as courtiers.
While Bernadette kneels on the ground
Where Heaven's luster gleams
On solemn quiet all around
And meadow's ice-bound streams.
The Peasant is emparadised
With vision on the sod -
The Mother of our loving Christ
All luminous - from God.
"My child, Immaculate I am,"
She said to Bernadette,
"And truly Mother of God's Lamb
Whose blood dyed Olivette."
In loving sympathy, your Queen,
From Paradise, through thee
Bequeaths this sparkling water stream
To heal humanity.
Francesca Brennan
Cyril Robert. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Song of Bernadette
Immaculate Mother, Queen of Peace,
Would your children might recall
The Rosary Song of Bernadette,
The loving care you have for all.
For the scourge of war is not lightened
By the tears and lamenting of men;
Only prayer, repentance, atonement,
Can ever bring peace again.
So enfold in your Rosary Crusade
All your war-torn children today -
The sinful, suffering, despondent,
Dear Mother, please help us to pray.
Then take all our Ave Marias
To the Sacred Heart of your Son;
And plead with Him, dear Mother,
That Peace on earth may come.
Immaculate Mother, Queen of Peace,
Awaken in the hearts of men
Devotion to your Son and thee -
The Song of Bernadette again.
Bernice Gleason Grant
Cyril Robert. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.
The Miracles of La Salette
All who invoked her, kneeling at her shrine
Or looking towards her from some far-off land,
Soon felt the virtue of her gracious hand
Or learnt before the cross their wills incline.
But still more pilgrims came here to beseech
For greater cure - that of a wayward heart
Intent on nobler ways and brave new start,
For strength to make with past a lasting breach.
Of these two signs say which more wonderful -
Some portents wrought before our spell-bound eyes
Or rather inward victories of grace?
If such of things divine the measured rule,
Conceive what unsung glory hidden lies
In the mute annals of this hallowed place.
James P. O'Reilly, M.S.
Cyril Robert. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Ode to Mary
O Blessed Mary
Immaculate Virgin
Most holy and pure
free of all sin
Mother of God
and all mankind
Loving and gentle
sweet and kind
Full of grace
and merciful
Perpetual help
and prayerful
Our Lady of Sorrows
so sorrowful
Soul eternally spotless
so beautiful
Messenger of God
our intercessor
Perfect human
our protector
To save mankind
reveal Your faces
at Knock, Tre-Fontane
and other places
At La Salette
and at Pontmain
At Rue du Bac
and at Beauraing
Lady of Carmel
and Guadalupe
Lady of Fatima
and Medjugorje
Lady of the Rosary
and of Lourdes' Shrine
Lily of the Valley
Torch of Love sublime
Cape of Juan Diego
Song of Bernadette
Miracle at Fatima
the world dare not forget
Queen of Peace
and of Heaven above
Queen of Earth
And Queen of Love
You gave us the grace
of First Saturday
And specially taught us
the rosary to pray
Please help us convert
and help us to pray
To open our hearts
to do penance each day
To love one another
and do every good deed
To respond from our hearts
Your teachings to heed
Draw us ever closer
to Your Divine Son
That we may become holy
and our hearts become one
For you are the Handmaid
of the Lord
You live eternally
according to His Word.
Peter Heintz
A Guide to Apparitions. Part I.
Sacramento: Gabriel Press, 1995.
Ballade to Our Lady of Czestochowa
Lady and Queen of Mystery manifold
And very Regent of the untroubled sky,
Whom in a dream St. Hilda did behold
And heard a woodland music passing by:
You shall receive me when the clouds are high
With evening and the sheep attain the fold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold.
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to dry;
And vast against the winter night the world,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I
Shall hymn you in a harbour story told.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Help the half-defeated, House of Gold,
Shrine of the sword, and Tower of Ivory;
Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,
The Battler's vision and the World's reply.
You shall restore me, O my last Ally,
To vengeance and the glories of the bold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.
Prince of the degradations, bought and sold,
These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.
Hillaire Belloc
A Song of La Salette
On flower-enamelled peak of Dauphine
The lilting voice of nature's Mistress rings,
And quickly a sweet water-music springs
From streamlet sadly mute until this day.
Nature unfolds a carpet blue and green
Before this light which makes the sun to pale,
Forget-me-not, blue gentian, violet frail,
A color-rhapsody sing to their Queen.
All round, the vast and snow-capped mountains
rise
Like stairs that beckon to eternal halls;
Beyond the birds and trees their purple walls
Go steeply up into the noonday skies.
Below, the cataracting torrents lead
Down craters dense with fir and silver pine;
On sloping meadows browse the peaceful kine,
The fertile loam lies harrowed for the seed.
O pilgrim! Stand, admire this vast creation,
This great cathedral built by Master-hand
And placed in wildness terrible and grand;
Ah! Well our Lady chose this tranquil isolation
To wean us from all worldly dissipation
And make us sigh for our true home and land!
James P. O'Reilly, M.S.
Cyril Robert. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.
Spring at Lourdes
In the clefts of the rock the dove,
In the hollows of the wall
The beautiful one, my love,
Comely, slender, and tall.
The flowers at last in our land -
Sandaling slim white feet,
The voice of the turtle, and
A voice that is strange and sweet.
Here let the heart abide,
For winter is over and done
Where Heaven is opened wide
On a woman clothed with the sun.
Sr. Mary St. Virginia
Cyril Robert
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
The Mystic Roses of Salette
Amongst her ornaments, the children told
Of roses, oh! So richly hued and bright,
That fringed Our Lady's diadem of gold
And graced her fairest brow. Fine threads of light
Shone from their centres, flames that upward streamed
Like incense in a sun-gilt fane. Across
Her white cape, too, a chain of roses gleamed,
And round her shoes they weaved their shimmering
gloss.
Mystical roses, these! And symbols all
Of fervent rosaries her clients thread,
And of the Aves from their lips that fall
As petals for her maiden feet to tread;
Their rosaries, as flowery crowns, adorn
With love's devotion to her who came to mourn.
James P. O'Reilly, M.S.
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Evening Falls on the Grotto
The molten sun was setting
Through a heavy woodland screen,
And fair, among the beams of light,
Stood a grotto of Our Queen.
Around her head a diadem
With jewels was shining bright,
The jewels were warm as little stars,
The same as light the night.
Her face gave forth a radiance,
That filled my soul with love,
Her eyes were raised towards Heaven
And the tinted skies above.
Her hands were hanging by her side -
They gave a wondrous glow,
The beams that fell were graces
She has obtained for us below.
The sun has set, the moon is up,
The scene is still the same -
Symbol of her who does not change
Towards those who call her name.
Mary Moffitt
Cyril Robert
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
The Canticle of Bernadette
'Tis near the noonday on Massabielle
When the rock will resound to the Angelus bell.
A maiden of Lourdes from the old mountain town
Goes gathering driftwood the Gave may bring down.
No wind in the poplars, no sound in the hills -
A sudden breath passes, and Bernadette thrills.
What vision beams yonder? The green - ivied grot
Enshrineth such glory as mortals know not.
Oh, fairer than queens is this Queen undefiled,
Who tenderly smiles on the shepherdess child.
God's angels have garbed her in white robe and veil;
Beside her blue girdle the blue sky looks pale.
A rosary gleams in her fingers so fair;
The fine gold is beaded with jewels most rare.
Gold roses of Eden her white feet adorn,
For Mary remaineth the Rose without thorn.
Fifteen times Bernadette kept her pilgrimage tryst
With Mary, the mild maiden - Mother of Christ.
"Oh, pray for poor sinners, do penance and pray!"
What sorrow the tones of Our Lady betray!"
"Go wash in the well-spring," said Mary - "and drink,
And taste of the wild herb that grows by the brink."
Oh, strange! When the child digs a hole in the ground,
At the touch of her fingers well-waters abound.
At Lady-Day dawning the secret is told -
"In me the Immaculate Conception behold!"
All hail to thee, Mary, God's beautiful one,
Who gave to the world God's own holy Son.
Cyril Robert
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
An Apparition
"A sign was seen in heaven; a Woman stood;
beneath her feet the moon." That waning moon
'Neath yonder pictured apparition curved,
Is time there dying with his dying months;
The Spirit showed that Vision to Saint John
Exiled in Patmos Isle. The best beloved
Deserved such solace best.
Aubrey De Vere
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Our Lady of La Salette
Two Shepherd Children once of long ago
Espied as in a Dream - all ray'd in Light
One - bowed deep in prayer - and weeping there.
"Who could the Lady be, so sad, so fair?"
They thought within themselves,
"What brings her here?"
Than at their wondering prayer - the Lady spoke!
At the sweet accents, gathering close - all rapt -
They gazed upon the tender smile of winning grace!
Who knows, but what they saw - Another's Face
Therein reflected ! E'en the Face of God?
The Lady spoke! "None go to Mass to pray!
But spend God's Sabbath in useless, idle way!
Blaspheme! - E'en take His Holy Name in vain!
"Fain do I pray - I stay His Arm
And ask the world shall know no harm!
Who disobey His Rule.
"My children! You your prayers must say!
One Pater, Ave, night and day!
And if the world converted be
God's goodness it shall shortly see."
The Shepherds pondered every word
Of the Sorrowing Mother of Our Lord!
Yet knew not She was Mary Mild
Who gave us the Holy Child.
Sweet roses play'd on rainbow'd Light
As on Her gown all colors danc'd!
While on Her breast - a gold Cross gleam'd!
The Holy Sign of Christ's Redeemed.
Yet not alone the Cross - but chains!
The Hammer and Tongs of cruel pains
Upon Our Mother's breast they lay!
Sad tokens, on that happy day!
Then as Our Lady bid Goodbye,
And again assumed was to the sky
She said "This to my People make ye known
And bid them kneel at Mercy's Throne."
Ferne M. Montague
Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946.
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