So softly in the summer night
Your fragile vessel has set sail,
Back through your Irish Infancy,
Bound for the Islands of the Blest.
We stand upon our adult shores
And through the curtain of our tears
Perceive at last, in all its grace,
Your loving presence in our lives.
Now comes the gathering of our years,
the harvest of our childhood days,
And in the barns of memory
We store the blessings
of your love.
For my brothers and sisters
In loving memory of our Mother 1903 – 1992
Je suis le jardinier
Roi de mes quelques ares,
L’accoucheur au seuil de la vie
Et nourrice aux petits aux faibles.
Je suis le portier fidèle
Au portail des saisons,
Le semeur aux bras longs
Le tuteur qui tient ferme et bon.
Je suis le porteur d’eau
Soulageant les assoiffés,
Mais aussi le bourreau,
L’envahisseur des microcosmes.
Je suis le bûcheron
Elarguant les branches stériles,
L’incendiaire des feuilles mortes,
Le fossoyeur des trépassés.
Je serai moi-même à la fin,
Le grain qui meurt et qui vit,
L’humus qui renouvelle la terre.
Mais, jusqu’à la tombée du fruit,
Je suis l’homme comblé
Humant l’odeur de ses roses,
Le Bon Dieu qui se promène
A la fraîcheur du soir.
Of all Faith’s gifts, the one I sorely miss
Is that quiet lifting of the mind and heart
In unselfconscious praise, the soul of prayer,
Those inner songs of joy, all gathered up
And, with a child-like faith, deposited
With love and longing in the lap of God.
Where else and to which ear can I proclaim
The beauty of the mountains under snow,
The faithfulness and glory of the stars?
To whom commit for healing and support
The ailing body or the anguished mind,
To whom entrust the passing of our days?
The Psalmist’s songs are mine yet in my mouth
The words ring hollow and the blessings vain.
When intellect denies the heart’s desire
And reason takes its pure but ruthless path,
The anthems die away and in their place,
Like ivy on a wall, the silence grows.
May 1989
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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