Rosemary
Singing, she washed
Her baby’s clothes,
And, one by one,
As they were done,
She hung them in the sun to dry,
She hung them on a bush hard by,
Upon a waiting bush hard by,
A glad expectant bush hard by,
To dry in the sweet of the morning.
The while, her son,
Her little son,
Lay kicking, gleeful,
In the sun,—
Her little, naked, Virgin son.
O wondrous sight! Amazing sight!—
The Lord, who did the sun create,
Lay kicking with a babe’s delight,
Regardless of His low estate,
In joy of nakedness elate,
In His own sun’s fair light!
And all the sweet, sweet, sweet of Him
Clave to the bush, and still doth cleave,
And doth forever-more outgive
The fragrant holy sweet of Him.
Where’er it thrives
That bush forthgives
The faint, rare, sacred sweet of Him.
So—ever sweet, and ever green,
Shall Rosemary be queen.
