From deep blue space, from stars the angels trod,
From heaven and the very mind of God,
Where planets roll, the emerald shamrocks fall,
Each one a soul: the Trinity sculpts all.
They rest in saints’ own hands, but not to sleep:
The shamrocks are to scatter, not to keep.
They fell on Ireland, in sea-mist curled;
When famine made it hell, around the world
They traveled their new lands in rain and snow,
To put down roots wherever angels go.
On our own shores, they stopped and came to rest,
Because Saint Bridget’s fire forged the best.
In houses white with frost, in winter’s gloom,
Upon Saint Patrick’s Day, they’re said to bloom,
With songs and smiles, with laughter meant to share:
When you see shamrocks, Ireland is there,
Alive in bliss, to guard the mystery
Of how neglected gardens cross the sea.