Read "Botticelli's Madonna In The Louvre" by Edith Wharton online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
WHAT strange presentiment, O Mother, lies / On thy waste brow and sadly-folded lips, / Forefeeling the Light's terrible eclipse / On Calvary, as if love made thee wise, / And thou couldst read in those dear infant eyes / The sorrow that beneath their smiling sleeps, / And guess what bitter tears a mother weeps / When the cross darkens her unclouded skies?
Sad Lady, if some mother, passing thee, / Should feel a throb of thy foreboding pain, / And think -- "My child at home clings so to me, / With the same smile. and yet in vain, in vain, / Since even this Jesus died on Calvary" -- / Say to her then: "He also rose again. "