Came a voice: and an "Ave Maria" Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled; And in the embrace of its music The souls of a thousand lay stilled. A voice with the tones of an angel, Never flower such a sweetness distilled; It faded away -- but the temple With its perfume of worship was filled. Then back to the Queen-Virgin's altar The white veils swept on, two by two; And the holiest halo of heaven Flashed out from the ribbons of blue; And they laid down the wreaths of the roses Whose hearts were as pure as their hue; Ah! they to the Christ are the truest, Whose loves to the Mother are true! And thus, in the dim of the temple, In the dream-haunted dim of the day, The Angels and Children of Mary Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away, Where the sun-gleams knelt down with the shadows And wove with their gold and their gray A mantle of grace and of glory For the last lovely evening of May. "Gone" S. M. A. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into far away; Gone! and we can only dream of you Each as you fade like a star away. Fade as a star in the sky from us, Vainly we look for your light again; Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us? "Come!" and our hearts will be bright again. Come! and gaze on our face once more, Bring us the smiles of the olden days; Come! and shine in your place once more, And change the dark into golden days. Gone! gone! gone! Joy is fled for us; Gone into the night of the nevermore, And darkness rests where you shed for us A light we will miss ~forevermore~. Faces! ye come in the night to us; Shadows! ye float in the sky of sleep; Shadows! ye bring nothing bright to us; Faces! ye are but the sigh of sleep. Gone! and there's not a gleam of you, Faces that float into the far away; Gone! and we only can dream of you Till we sink like you and the stars away. Feast of the Sacred Heart Two lights on a lowly altar; Two snowy cloths for a Feast; Two vases of dying roses; The morning comes from the east, With a gleam for the folds of the vestments And a grace for the face of the priest. The sound of a low, sweet whisper Floats over a little bread, And trembles around a chalice, And the priest bows down his head! O'er a sign of white on the altar -- In the cup -- o'er a sign of red. As red as the red of roses, As white as the white of snows! But the red is a red of a surface Beneath which a God's blood flows; And the white is the white of a sunlight Within which a God's flesh glows. Ah! words of the olden Thursday! Ye come from the far-away! Ye bring us the Friday's victim In His own love's olden way; In the hand of the priest at the altar His Heart finds a home each day. The sight of a Host uplifted! The silver-sound of a bell! The gleam of a golden chalice. Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well; He made, and He keeps love's promise, With thee all days to dwell.