Masters tell and paint and sing,
Lighting many a knee-worn shrine
Up the nave of years to bring
Homage to this love of thine—
Mother-love whose altars ring
With old litanies divine.

Peace and ancient wonder fill
Him who rests his look on thee;
Though his lips be silent, still
Evermore life's melody
Must for him with beauty thrill,
Sacred, out of Galilee.

What is like the love thou hast
Never words can sing or say,
Thou who in thy arms so fast
Carest for him night and day,
That thy boy may grow at last
Strong enough to break away.

What is like the vision grown
Sudden in the mother's soul,
None but she hath ever known,—
Vision of the years that roll
Bringing him a world his own
He must win, redeem, control.

Dread by thy soft hand unquelled
Yet their soothing strength shall feel;
He to love shall be compelled
By thy lips' yet-binding seal—
Oft in world-compassion held
By thy words that still shall heal!