Along the ocean’s stormless side,
Below the never setting sun,
Where Innocent is every one,
Meet all Christ’s babes that ever died.

Some home around their Monarch’s seat,
Like doves that flutter to their rest;
Within His arms they find their nest
And wonder at His wounded feet.

Some make a goal of Mary’s knee,
To which they run in joyous race;
Then tell her that their mother’s face
On earth was just like hers to see.

Some call the angels to their play
Mid flowers of one unfading spring;
In radiant wheels they move and sing,
And learn the angels’ roundelay.

But some, I think, amid those bands,
Remembering our ruder lore
And love, towards this colder shore
Lift speed-well eyes and rose-leaf hands.