Like the voiceless starlight falling
Through the darkness of the night,
Like the silent dewdrops forming
In the cold moon's cloudless light,
So there come to hearts in sorrow
Mary's angels dear and bright.

Like the scents of countless blossoms
That are trembling in the air,
Like the breaths of gums that perfume
Sandy deserts bleak and bare,
Are our Lady's ceaseless answers
To affliction's lowly prayer.

They are endless, they are countless,
Like the leaves upon the trees;
They are healings sweetly hidden,
Like the fragrance in the breeze;
They are spirits to the drooping,
Like the freshness from the seas.

They are not like earthly comforts,
Nor like anything on earth;
They are peacefuller than slumber,
They are cheerfuller than mirth;
They are light to all life's darkness,
They are plenty to its dearth.

They are presences and foretastes
Of some nameless heavenly things,
From the golden throne of Mary
Wafted down to us on wings;
Yet they come to none but mourners,
To the hearts that sorrow wrings.

They are wondrous thoughts of Jesus,
They are presences of God,
Giving zest to weary sadness,
Or strange sweetness to the rod,
Filling full of heavenly sunbeams
Sorrow's dark and lone abode.

For they come into our spirits
With a soft and winning might;
And they make our dead look brighter
In the waking hours of night;
And they gently turn our darkness
Into depths of tenderest light.

Oh, it is as if some fragments
Of the golden calms of heaven,
By the mercy of our Father,
Into Mary's hands were given;
But to earth were only falling
Upon hearts with sorrow riven.

For in Mary's ear all sorrow
Singeth ever like a psalm:
Welcome, Mother, are the tempests
Which thou layest with thy calm;
Sweet the broken hearts thou healest
With thine own heart's nameless balm.