A BOTTICELLI MADONNA

The little hands returning wistfully From birdlike wand'rings, ever come to rest, On fostering hand on tender cheek or breast; The upturned eyes, with loving certainty Seek ever the grave face where broodingly, The mother-soul by yearning love opprest, With wings down-drooped, seems folded o'er the nest Where lies the Hope of all humanity. And she His World, and He her Calvary,— He wraps her round with all the mystery Of love predestined for earth's needy ones; "Be comforted," it seems He fain would say, "O mother mine, there dawns an Easter day, And thou in me hast mothered many sons."