A BOTTICELLI MADONNA

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.