  Sister Imelda ("Estelle Marie Gerard"), poet, was born at Jackson, Tennessee, January 17, 1869, the daughter of Charles Brady, a native of Ireland, and soldier in the Confederate army. After the war he went to Jackson, Tennessee, and married Miss Ann Sharpe, a kinswoman of Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi. Their second child was Helen Estelle Brady, the future poet. She was educated by the Dominican sisters at Jackson and, at the age of eighteen years, entered the sisterhood, taking the name of "Sister Imelda." For the next twenty-three years she lived in Kentucky, teaching music in Roman Catholic institutions at Louisville and Springfield, but she is now connected with the Sacred Heart Institute,
A JUNE IDYL [From Heart Whispers (1905)] Every glade sings now of summer— Songs as sweet as violets' breath; And the glad, warm heart of nature Thrills and gently answereth. Answers through the lily-lyrics And the rosebud's joyous song, Faintly o'er the valley stealing, As the June days speed along. And we, pausing, fondly listen To their tuneful minstrelsy, Floating far beyond the wildwood To the ever restless sea. Till the echoes, softly, lowly, Trembling on the twilight air— Tells us that each rose and lily Bows its scented head in prayer. HEART MEMORIES [From the same] In fancy's golden barque at eventide My spirit floateth to the Far Away, And dreamland faces come as fades the day. They lean upon my heart. We gently glide Adown the magic shores of long ago, While memories, like silver lily bells, Are tinkling in my heart's fair woodland dells And breathing songs full sweetly soft and low. When eventide has slowly winged its flight, And moonbeams clothe the flowers with radiant light, Ah, then there swiftly come again to me, Like echoes of some song-bird melody, Borne on the breeze from far-off mountain height, Fond thoughts of home, and Mother dear, of Thee. A NUN'S PRAYER [From the same] When lilies swing their voiceless silver bells, And twilight's kiss doth linger on the sea, I wander silently o'er the scented lea By brooks that murmur through the sleeping dells, And rippling onward, chant the funeral knells Of leaves they bear upon their breasts. On Thee, Dear Lord, I lean! The grandest destiny Of life is mine. Within my heart there wells For thee a deep love, and sweetest peace Doth glimmer star-like on the wavelet's crest. Grant, Thou, O Christ, its gleaming ne'er may cease, Until Death's angel makes the melody That calls my pinioned spirit home to Thee, Then only will it know eternal rest. |
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