The Madonna Of The Veil.

Light through a little veil is all thy trace
    Of halo, blessed Child!
The sorrow of the world is in thy face,
    fair, undefiled!
    dear and undefiled!

The kneeling boy, with pretty lips apart,
    Half loves, half worships thee;
Baby and sweet, yet separate thou art
    To that simplicity,
    To that young piety!

But Mary's look no hint of anguish stirs;
    Perfect that motherhood;
One day the bitter sword, this day is hers;
    And, God!, how very good!
    gracious God! How good!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

Margaret Steele Anderson

In The Dawn.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

In The Image Of God.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Mystery.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Victor.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Putto.

No child, no mortal child am I,
No angel from the blue on high,
And, though I gayly dance and shout,
No Cupid, from a Bacchic rout.

But I am all young innocence.
So young I do not know offence.
So very young I think that I
Will catch that bird, that butterfly.

Madonna, Lady, Queen of Heaven,
Or Mother, whose red wounds are seven,
Or waiting Virgin, mild and fair.
See, I will hide behind thy chair!

And round thy pulpit, friar gray,
Lo, I will frolic all the day!
My ways, perchance, are not divine.
But cannot hurt thee, no, nor thine!

And thou, little darling Christ,
'Tis long ere thou be sacrificed;
Do beckon me, thou pretty One,
And we will sing and laugh and run!

And at the last, why then will I
The earth...

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Mother.

Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine
And in thy house he shall grow up.
Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
Of trembling, as if child of mine.

But ah, forgive me!, is he warm?
And fed? Or does he miss my breast?
Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest.
And never cry, in Mary's arm?

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Purification.

Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high -
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky -
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil - from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.

Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and bright:
Agate and porphyry - precious gems - cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.

But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye; -
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face -
With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.

Yet, no! those soft, slight arm...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

The Magdalen At The Madonna's Shrine.

O Madonna, pure and holy,
    From sin's dark stain ever free,
Refuge of the sinner lowly,
    I come - I come to thee!
Now with wreaths of sinful pleasure
    Yet my tresses twined among;
From the dance's giddy measure,
    From the idle jest and song.

See! I tear away the flowers
    From my perfumed golden hair,
Closely tended in past hours
    With such jealous, sinful care;
Never more for me they blossom,
    Not for me those jewels vain:
On my arms or brow or bosom,
    They shall never shine again.

Dost thou wonder at my daring
    Thus to seek thy sacred shrine,
When the sinner's lot despairing,
    Wretched - hopeless - should be mine?
To the instincts high of woman
    Most unfaithful and untrue;
Yet Madonna,...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

To the Virgin Mary

Mother of Him we call the Christ,
No halo round thy brows we paint,
Incense and prayer we offer not,
Nor mind to title thee as saint.

And yet, no womans name, of all
With honour from the ages sent,
Mary, is aureoled like thine,
With love and grief and glory blent!

Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.

Thou heardst the angels prophecy,
The tidings which the shepherds brought,
Anna and Simeon praising God,
And sawst that star the Wise Men sought!

Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,
With meekness, Gods triumphal light;
Then, still believing, with His Charge,
At midnight take an exiles flight?

Throughout the Son...

Mary Hannay Foott

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