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Softly through the little wood
Came the Queen of Heaven;
Paused, and stood.
Bluebells deep as mists of even,
Like the shadow dim and sweet
Of the robes around Her feet,
Fragrant, fair,
Soon were growing, blowing there.


Mary thought of Christ the child,
Playing at Her knees,
Dear and mild--
Mother-thoughts amid the trees.
Wood-anemones all white
Where the thoughts fell sprang to light,
Pure and pale,
Tender, sacred, starlike, frail.


Primrose of happy gold
Smiled up from the grass:
"Us, behold,
Mother Mary, as You pass!
Aureole about His Head,
Your bright hair above Him spread:
Stoop and see--
We are golden also, we!"


So She slowly, softly trod
Down the woodland way--
She and God;
Watched the lights and shadows play:
And wild parsley fresh and green,
With the growing ferns between,
Small and shy,
Paved the path as She passed by.