Maria Immaculata, I

How may I sing, unworthy I, Our Lady’s glorious sanctity? She whose celestial shoon Rest on the horned moon In Heaven’s highest galaxy; She whom the poet sang of old In that rare vision told In soft Tuscan speech of gold, The spotless spouse and mother-maid The goodliest sapphire in Heaven’s floor inlaid, Around whom wheels the circling flame Of the rapt seraph breathing Mary’s name, While choir to choir replies In growing harmonies Through all the glowing spheres of Paradise, Till universal Heaven’s glad estate Rings jubilation to their queen immaculate.