24
A CRADLED CHILD
The presence of a 'holy thing,' Madonna-wise, her heart discerns, And like a fragrant censer burns, O'ershadowed by an angel's wing.
Her brooding motherhood is strong; A trembling joy her bosom stirs, Her thoughts are white-robed worshippers, 'Magnificat' is all her song.
'Mid angels whispering 'all-hails' The waking moment she awaits, The opening of two pearly gates, The lifting of two silken veils.