Mary, shed Your hair, for lo!
Here the azure cherubs blow,
And Jesus wakes upon Your breast;
Where His rosy fingers rest;
And golden angels lay their chins
Upon their breathing violins.
Now morning in the meads is green,
And, Mary, look at Life's demesne:
How infinitely sweet it seems,
From the forests and the streams
To roofs that cluster like an isle;
And, Mary, see Your cities smile
Happy as any child at play,
While from spires and steeples they
Proclaim the simple Gospel peace
With their showering melodies
From the gold dawn to the sunset sky,
Greeted, Mary of Houses, by
The men of Flanders loving still
The brown, centennial earth they till.
And sing now, all ye merry men
Who plough the glebe, sing once again
Your Flanders sweet to larks that sing
With gladsome voices concerting,
And sail afar, ye ships that glass
Your flags in billows green as grass,
For Jesus holds His hands above,
Mary, this festival of love
Made by the sky for summer's birth,
With silk and velvet covering earth.