AS PAINTED BY BOTTICELLI

Mary, on the Prince of peace thy gladness
Gleams from radiant eyes;
But their light is touched with passing sadness,
Like our English summer skies.

Angels’ arms above thy head are holding
Crowns of golden stars;
But the baby hands thy breast enfolding
Show to thee their future scars.

Lilies cense thee with their exhalations,
But thy heart has guessed
Slanders of the scoffing generations
Who will call thee cursed, not blessed.

So when clouds of faint foreboding sorrow
From an unknown sea
Come to warn me of a broken morrow,
Mother Mary, pray for me.