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To a Little White Bird

Into the world you came, and I was dumb,

Because "God did it," so the wise ones said;

I wonder sometimes "Did you really come?"

And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?"

Thus you went out -- alone and uncaressed;

O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant grace,

I never held you in my arms, nor pressed

Warm kisses on your face!

But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,

My soul will claim you . . . you, and not another;

I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY CHILD!"

And you will call me "MOTHER!"