A BOTTICELLI 'MADONNA



                    II

          THE MOURNFUL MOTHER

O    CHILD of mine, my little Son, alas!
       Beneath the sunlight of Thy gentle eyes,
     Too soon, too soon, what fateful shadows
          rise,
Like night foretold in some sweet woodland
         glass 
On tender feet that scarcely bow the grass,
What stains are those of ripe pomegranate
          dyes -
When on my breast Thy head in slumber lies,
What thorns are those that through my heart
          do pass
And round about these crowds of haunting forms
That burn their splendor through my dimmest
         dreams!
O little Child, Thou Wonder too divine,
Thy precious body all my bosom warms
With mine own blood, but oftentimes it seems,
Too dearly loved,-that yet Thou art not mine.