O let me love you, Mary!
When spring through Foremass strays;
When all the vales are verdant,
And golden all the braes.
Then fair are the flow’rs and blossoms;
But fairer will they be –
If I have you to love, Mary!
And you to love have me.

O let me love you, Mary!
When summer sunlight beams
On the white homes of Foremass,
And on the Foremass streams.
Sweet songs these streams are singing:

But sweeter will they be –

If with your voice they blend, Mary!
The while you talk with me.

O let me love you, Mary!
When leaves of autumn fall,
When the birds’ songs are heard not,
And a hush hangs oe’r all.
Then the grand groves of Foremass
Far more sublime will be –
Reflected in your eyes, Mary!
The while they smile on me.

O let me love you, Mary!

When winter raves and scolds:
And Foremass his white mantle
Around his shoulders folds.
One dear, white home in Foremass
Will dearer, whiter be –
If it be then love’s shrine, Mary!
The home of you and me.

O, I would deem my lot divine.
Though forced to leave my native shore;
If I were yours-and you were mine,
To part no more.

For you to me are more than land –
My flow’rs of flow’rs, my harp in tune,
My mine of gold, my jewels, and
My sun and moon!

O, I would deem my lot divine,
Though doomed to life-long servitude;
If I were yours, if you were mine –
I would – I would!

Work would be joy, and pain be bliss,
And crosses sweet for sake of you;
I’d have, in one soul-stirring kiss,
More than my due.

O, I would deem my lot divine,
Though failed by friends and all the rest;
If I were yours – if you were mine,
In one wee nest.

For what to me were wealth and wine,
And home and friends, and power and place,
Were I not yours – were you not mine? –
My flower of grace.

He knelt by a grave where forget-me-nots grew
In the shape of a cross, a beautiful blue.
His pain too poignant, his anguish too deep,
His woe too intense – not one tear could he weep.
The tears might have softened the sobs hard and dry;
And yet not a single tear moistened his eye.

He mused: “From blest bowers in God’s lovely town,
I know Mary often looks lovingly down
On me, her true lover, heart-broken and sad,
Whom she loved as a man, and admired as a lad.
And I know that she’ll meet me and greet me again
In that land where there’s neither sin, sorrow nor pain.

And I’m sure that true lovers God joined here below
Will join hands again where God’s white Lilies grow.
For true love’s immortal, true love will not die,
While the true God of true love is reigning on high”

Footnote: This poem was written about his wife’s grave in Dunmoyle. Michael walked to Dunmoyle every day. First from Shane and latter from Foremass.