By Sister Maris Stella, C.S.J.
This was a white dawn for the whiteness of Ireland,
a snowy dawn for Brigid, whiteness of the Gael.
Under the moon the orchards bloomed with hoarfrost,
the white hills lay pale.
This was a bright day for the brightness of Ireland,
a snowy day for Brigid, brightness of the Gael.
Against the pearly sky the tree tops glistened,
each in a white Bride-veil.
This was a proud day for the pride of Ireland,
a shining day for Brigid, pride of the Gael.
Who set for her this glitter of frost on the bleak trees
where leaves and blossoms fail?