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."