Thy precious body all my bosom warms 

   With mine own blood, but oftentimes it seems, 

   Too dearly loved,—that yet Thou art not mine. 

[24]

[24]

 

[25]

[25]

 

     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. 

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