Annunciation - From A Picture By Botticelli

    Immortal eloquence of mystic Art!
    How strangely o'er oblivion and gray time,
    That hand doth speak, as in the painter's prime
    It uttered thus his own and Mary's heart,
    At sight of it, what rich conjectures start,
    Adown the years, what wistful Aves chime,
    That wake the soul to rapture how sublime,
    Wherewith we, too, must bear in Him our part!
    For unto each to bring redemption's share,
    Whereby adown the ages Christ is borne,
    There comes the angel of the lilied rod;
    And though our souls with anguish sore are torn,
    We pray once more the world-o'ercoming prayer,
    And then is born in us the Word of God.

Ethel Allen Murphy

Ethel Allen Murphy was an American poet who wrote extensively on themes of nature, imagination, and human experience. Her works often encapsulate the beauty and depth of the natural world, drawing connections between the environment and personal reflection. While much of her life and career details remain obscure, her poetry continues to be celebrated for its lyrical quality and emotional resonance.

Ethel Allen Murphy

The Angel Of Thought

Ethel Allen Murphy, Simple Poetry

A Botticelli Madonna I The Wondering Angels

Ethel Allen Murphy, Simple Poetry

A Prayer For The Followers Of Ideal Beauty

Ethel Allen Murphy, Simple Poetry

English

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Annunciation - From The Picture By Botticelli

Kneeling in prayer, her spirit rapt above,
She meets with God, Who bendeth, brooding low,
In vast compassion humanward, and so,
There comes upon her life the power of Love:
Rising--behold! with pinions like a dove,
An angel with a rod where row on row
Of chaliced lilies spill supernal glow,--
Which all her thought to wonder mute doth move.
Then falls upon the rapture of her soul,
Dimly some vision of Gethsemane,
Athwart the Resurrection's shining goal,
And with uplifted hand she pleads as One
Shall pray in night of darkest agony,
"This cup remove,--yet, Lord, Thy Will be done."

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Ethel Allen Murphy

A Botticelli Madonna I The Wondering Angels

Behold! the Tabernacle of God's Will
This woman's form enshrineth. What is this,
More glorious than all our age-long bliss,
Which shines within the shadow of her sill?
How shall we lift this strangeness which doth fill
Her human heart to breaking,--we who miss
In our immortal joy, the enlight'ning kiss
Of sorrow's bitter lips whence comforts thrill?
How shall we sing to her of joys to come,
To her who bears upon her breast the sum
Of death's dread gloom and heaven's undying light?
Lean close, ah, close, about her from above,--
Behold upon the mildness of her love
Enthroned the terrors of His Holy Might!

Ethel Allen Murphy

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."

Ethel Allen Murphy

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.

Ethel Allen Murphy

The Annunciation

(For Helen Parry Eden)



"Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith.
Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;
She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,
Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.
Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth;
Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,
Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed,
And human lips have trembled in God's breath.

O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover
With thy white self, whereon no stain can be,
Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover,
Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.
About thy head celestial legions hover,
Chanting the praise of thy humility.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

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 ...

Ethel Allen Murphy