To a Little White Bird

Into the world you came, and I was
dumb,
Because "God did it," so the wise ones
said;
I wonder sometimes "Did you really
come?"
And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?"

Thus you went out -- alone and uncaressed;
O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant
grace,
I never held you in my arms, nor pressed
Warm kisses on your face!

But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,
My soul will claim you . . . you, and
not another;
I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY
CHILD!"
And you will call me "MOTHER!"