 | The poems of Maria Lowell |  |
19
JESUS AND THE DOVE
A CATHOLIC LEGEND
TO A. H. W.
With patient hand Jesus in clay once wrought,
And made a snowy dove that upward flew:
Dear child, from all things draw some holy thought,
That like his dove they may fly upward too.
And made a snowy dove that upward flew:
Dear child, from all things draw some holy thought,
That like his dove they may fly upward too.
Mary, the mother good and mild,
Went forth one summer's day,
That Jesus and his comrades all
In meadows green might play.
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 crowned.
They search the meadows round,
They twined them all into a wreath,
And little Jesus crowned.
Tired of play, they came at last
And sat at Mary's feet,
While Jesus asked his mother dear
A story to repeat.
And sat at Mary's feet,
While Jesus asked his mother dear
A story to repeat.
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“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.”
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;
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 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.
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 not a word they say,
So busily their fingers work
To mould the birds of clay.
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But now the clay that Jesus held
And turned unto the light,
And moulded with a patient touch,
Changed to a perfect white.
And turned 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.
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 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.
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.
Before their eager eyes,
And with a white and steady wing,
Higher and higher flies.
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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.
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?
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.”
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 kneeled before her child.
That mother true and mild,
Folded her hands upon her breast,
And kneeled before her child.
| The poems of Maria Lowell | |