Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JESUS AND THE DOVE, by MARIA WHITE LOWELL



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JESUS AND THE DOVE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Mary, the mother good and mild
Last Line: And kneel'd before her child.
Subject(s): Doves; Jesus Christ - Childhood & Youth


MARY, the mother good and mild,
Went forth one summer's day,
That Jesus and his comrades all
In meadows green might play.

To find the brightest, freshest flowers,
They search the meadows round,
They twined them all into a wreath
And little Jesus crown'd.

Weary with play, they came at last
And sat at Mary's feet,
While Jesus ask'd his mother dear
A story to repeat.

"And we," said one, "from out this clay
Will make some little birds;
So shall we all sit quietly,
And heed the mother's words."

Then Mary, in her gentle voice,
Told of a little child
Who lost her way one dark, dark night,
Upon a dreary wild;

And how an angel came to her,
And made all bright around,
And took the trembling little one
From off the damp, hard ground;

And how he bore her in his arms
Up to the blue so far,
And how he laid her fast asleep,
Down in a silver star.

The children sit at Mary's feet,
But not a word they say,
So busily their fingers work
To mould the birds of clay.

But now the clay that Jesus held,
And turn'd unto the light,
And moulded with a patient touch,
Changed to a perfect white.

And slowly grew within his hands
A fair and gentle dove,
Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold
Beneath his look of love.

The children drop their birds of clay,
And by his side they stand,
To look upon the wondrous dove
He holds within his hand.

And when he bends and softly breathes,
Wide are the wings outspread;
And when he bends and breathes again,
It hovers round his head.

Slowly it rises in the air
Before their eager eyes,
And, with a white and steady wing,
Higher and higher flies.

The children all stretch forth their arms
As if to draw it down:
"Dear Jesus made the little dove
From out the clay so brown --

"Canst thou not live with us below,
Thou little dove of clay,
And let us hold thee in our hands,
And feed thee every day?

"The little dove it hears us not,
But higher still doth fly;
It could not live with us below --
Its home is in the sky."

Mary, who silently saw all --
That mother true and mild --
Folded her hands upon her breast,
And kneel'd before her child.





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