Once, it is said, on an isle in an age long past,
The sky was very dark at night and the stars shone clear,
And the people looked in holy awe at times
On the lights that turned the high court of the year,
And knew the signs. "It goes to Walsingham", they said,
Hushed, for overhead, chill miles across the sky
The white track, glorious of converging light,
As though showering trees lined a path on the height,
Ran over the road to the shrine of the Lady who does not die.

And in summer's farthest month they walked the road,
With songs to her, and candles in their hands,
And came at last to the shrine where more lights burned,
And remembered Her, called past where the North Star turned,
And this was done in many ways, and many lands...


Part of a poem I wrote four years ago... it was mostly 14-year-old angst, but I liked the bit about Our Lady. (It's weird, though: both of the poems I've posted so far have been inspired by a verse from Hopkins' Wreck of the Eurydice. I should do something about that.)

The Assumption in the photo (by Donatello, I think) is underneath the church of Santa Croce in Florence.


And here are two stanzas of the Dedication from GKC's Ballad of the White Horse. The second stanza especially made me think of the feast we celebrate today:


Ride through the silent earthquake lands,
Wide as a waste is wide,
Across these days like deserts, when
Pride and a little scratching pen
Have dried and split the hearts of men,
Heart of the heroes, ride.

Up through an empty house of stars,
Being what heart you are,
Up the inhuman steeps of space
As on a staircase go in grace,
Carrying the firelight on your face
Beyond the loneliest star.



Have a happy and blessed feast of the Assumption.