Ethel Allen Murphy

Behold! the Tabernacle of God's Will This woman's form enshrineth.    What is this, More glorious than all our age-long bliss,

O child of mine, my little Son, alas! Beneath the sunlight of Thy gentle eyes, Too soon, too soon, what fateful shadows rise,

The little hands returning wistfully From birdlike wand'rings, ever come to rest, On fostering hand on tender cheek or breast;

(With a pencil sketch of an Angel by Botticelli) Thou in whose All no work imperfect stands, Thou who dost gaze on Beauty's unveiled face,

Immortal eloquence of mystic Art! How strangely o'er oblivion and gray time, That hand doth speak, as in the painter's prime

Kneeling in prayer, her spirit rapt above, She meets with God, Who bendeth, brooding low, In vast compassion humanward, and so,

(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,

(Suggested by a Fra Angelico Angel) Angel of Thought, meseems God winged thee so, And crowned thine head with passion fine as flame,

(From the picture in D'rer's series on "The Life of the Virgin") The mountains wonder from their cloudy height, The skies look on and grow more deep with awe;