April 30, 1896.

TO SCATTER FLOWERS

O Jesus!  O my Love! each eve I come to fling
   My springtide roses sweet before Thy Cross divine;
By their plucked petals fair, my hands so gladly bring,
      I long to dry Thine every tear!

To scatter flowers!—­that means each sacrifice: 
   My lightest sighs and pains, my heaviest, saddest hours,
My hopes, my joys, my prayers—­I will not count the price—­
      Behold my flowers!

With deep untold delight Thy beauty fills my soul,
   Would I might light this love in hearts of all who live! 
For this, my fairest flowers, all things in my control,
      How fondly, gladly would I give!

To scatter flowers!—­behold my chosen sword
   For saving sinners’ souls and filling Heaven’s bowers: 
The victory is mine—­yea, I disarm Thee, Lord,
      With these my flowers!

The petals in their flight caress Thy Holy Face;
   They tell Thee that my heart is Thine, and Thine alone. 
Thou knowest what these leaves are saying in my place: 
      On me Thou smilest from Thy Throne.

To scatter flowers!—­that means, to speak of Thee—­
   My only pleasure here, where tears fill all the hours;
But soon, with Angel Hosts, my spirit shall be free
      To scatter flowers.

June 28, 1896.

WHY I LOVE THEE, MARY!

Last Poem written by Soeur Therese

Concluding Stanzas

Henceforth thy shelter in thy woe was John’s most humble dwelling;
   The son of Zebedee replaced the Son Whom Heaven adored. 
Naught else the Gospels tell us of thy life, in grace excelling;
   It is the last they say of thee, sweet Mother of my Lord!

But oh!  I think that silence means that, high in Heaven’s Glory,
   When time is past, and to their House thy children safe are
come,
The Eternal Word, my Mother dear, Himself will tell thy story,
   To charm our souls—­thy children’s souls—­in our Eternal Home.

Soon I shall hear that harmony, that blissful, wondrous singing;
   Soon, unto Heaven that waits for us, my soul shall swiftly fly. 
O thou who cam’st to smile on me at dawn of life’s beginning! 
   Come once again to smile on me . . .  Mother! the night is nigh.

I fear no more thy majesty, so far removed above me,
   For I have suffered sore with thee:  now hear me, Mother mild! 
Oh, let me tell thee face to face, dear Mary! how I love thee;
   And say to thee for evermore:  I am Thy little child.

May 1897.

NOTE.—­The above poems are reprinted from the translation of the
Little Flower’s poems made by Susan L. Emery, of Dorchester,
Mass.,
U.S.A., and published by the Carmel of Boston. [Ed.]