  A wandering world of rivers, A wavering world of trees, If the world grow dim and dizzy With all changes and degrees, It is but Our Lady’s mirror Hung dreaming in its place, Shining with only shadows Till she wakes it with her face. The standing whirlpool of the stars, The wheel of all the world, Is a ring on Our Lady’s finger With the suns and moons empearled With stars for stones to please her Who sits playing with her rings With the great heart that a woman has And the love of little things. Wings of the whirlwind of the world From here to Ispahan, Spurning the flying forests Are light as Our Lady’s fan: Lie open and all at ease Where God has girded heaven to guard Her holy vanities. |
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