Madonna

By Katharine Lee Bates

Once we beheld ecstatic cripples flinging
Away their crutches at a pilgrim shrine.
Do you remember, at the feet divine
Of Mary and her Child, that mother bringing
Her own poor baby-boy deformed, and wringing
Her toilworn hands in supplication? Sign
Of healing there was none; only the whine
Of that repulsive child; only the clinging
Of those gaunt hands. The haloed image stood
Tranquil, unheeding, with its mantle blue
Gathered about that little Christ of wood,
Linen and laces. Then I looked to you
And saw the pure Madonna yearning through
Your pitying face holy with motherhood.