She stoops to us from her dim recess
With weary and wistful eyes;
She has grown so tired of the censer's swing,
Of the white-robed choir and the songs they sing,
Of the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless,
And the feast and the sacrifice.
They bow to her as the Mother blest
Of the great and awful God;
But her heart holds dearest His early years,
The childish laughter, the childish tears,
Ere His feet had the road of sorrows pressed,
Or the way to the cross had trod.
Her thoughts go back to the days of yore —
Away from the garish light,
And the organ's droning melody,
To the starry shores of Galilee,
To the vines that shaded her cottage door,
And the hush of the Eastern night.
So she bends to us from her dim recess
With weary and wistful eyes,
And turns away from the tapers’ light
To dream of the cool and the hush of night,
From the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless,
To the starry Eastern skies.