The Heavens are most revered,
And also the most endeared.
They tell a tale of hope,
Told by the greatest pope.

Greater than all the world's histories,
Even all its' mysteries.
There are stories left untold,
Plenty of magic left to behold.

They withstand the test of time,
For which there is no reason or rhyme.
Angels dance about,
Never do they pout.

Flying on wings of gold,
Babies in their arms, they doth hold.
Take a stroll with Mary,
The infant Jesus, in her arms, she doth carry.

Through gardens of roses,
Along a path of poses.
She speaks gentle and kind,
Her manner is most soothing I find.

Never do I want to leave,
Unto her I want to cleave.
Alas I wake too soon,
Underneath the harvest moon.

I remember that special place,
And again can not wait to see her face.