I

I DO not understand the Saints —
They care no more for my complaints
Or wistful prayers I bring to them
Than our stone Mary at the door
Cares for the birds that sing and soar
And light about her garment's hem.

She does not care, — but yesterday
I placed some crumbs there — carefully —
Perhaps some time, in some such way,
An answered prayer may come to me.

II

When Father Martin talks to us
We sit up straight with careful eyes,
Like soldiers taking orders from
A Captain very stern and wise.

But oh, when Father Clement talks,
It seems as though he led one through
An open door to Some One there
Who takes your hand and smiles at you.

III

When Sister Mary-Joseph sings
Something besides her voice sings, too;
But far away behind closed doors
That bar and will not let it through.

She sings of calm and holy things —
I wish I could not hear at all
That other voice which beats its wings
And sobs and cries against the wall.