as!
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.

[Illustration: _The Madonna of the Rose Garden, by Botticelli_]

A BOTTICELLI MADONNA

III

THE LOVING CHRIST

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."

[Illustration: _Angel Crowned with Jasmine Wreath, by Botticelli_]

THE ANGEL OF THE JASMINE WREATH

(_From a picture by Botticelli, of the Madonna and Child with
Angels,--in the Borghese Gallery_)

Ineffable angel, with the jasmine wreathed,
Wherefrom the sweetness over brow and lips,
And luminous white eyelids tremulously slips,
A visible essence from thy beauty breathed,--
The pure and pensive marvel of thy face is sheathed
In tresses softer than the bloom of night,
Wherefrom the dampness on thy forehead drips
With dews from out God's meadows infinite,--
Thy face, itself, a lily filled with light:--
Thyself the youngest of God's angels and most fair,
Bearing His latest breath and blessing on thine hair,
Thou comest fresh from looking on thy Lord;
And all is well, and all is filled for thee
With eloquent, mute wonder of His Word.
Oh, lean a little forth thy lips to me,
For I am fain of peace amid this earthly strife,
And I would drink, a spent soul, thirstily,
From out thy never-failing cu