“His mother, whom I know,” her friend replied,
“As Mary, sweeps the shavings from the floor,
Cooks the poor fare for Joseph and her Son,
Cares for the water, and her jar brings here
As we do every day, who know not much
Beyond the things we hear from holy men.
Yet strange is Mary too; I know not where
To match the peace that’s on her tranquil brow;
Though, through it all, I’ve seen the Shadow there
The dread of days to come, though all resigned.