Classic Poem

Here is no golden-crowned, celestial queen
Such as Angelico would fitly paint,
With pink-white cheek and haloed smile serene,
Enringed by many a cherub, many a saint.
This is a peasant woman worn by toil,
Her cheeks are hollow as with child-bed's trace;
A poor, plain creature of the common soil,
Yet wearing godhead on her earnest face.
Well have you wrought, good painter, that could show
So pure a spirit in so rude a shrine.
The dullest soul that looks on this will know
That motherhood has loveliness divine.
What greater power than this has brush or pen:
To bring the thought of God to simple men?