Classic Poem

The sick son and the mother
In the little chamber slept:
The Mother of God came to them,
All silently she stept.

She stooped her over the sick one,
And her hand it lightly lay
Upon the troubled heart-beats;
And she smiled and passed away.

The mother sees all in her dreaming,
And more she has seen, I trow;
She waked from out of her slumber,
The dogs were barking so.

There lay outstretched beside her
Her son, and he was dead;
On the pallid cheeks there flickered
The light of the morning-red.

She folded her hands together,
She wist not how it might be;
Devoutly sang she and softly:
“Praise, Mary, be to thee!”