Here you will find thePoemBotticelli's Madonna in the Louvreof poet Edith Wharton
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.'
