Love’S Sanctuary

NO more I go to worship with the crowd In Christian temples, pagan now to me, No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud, I sing no credo, as it used to be:

Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome, Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine— A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home, On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.

There oft, in saddened times and weary hours, To secret sanctuary do I flee, Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers, To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;

For there, though not a Roman devotee, Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.