REMEMBER Botticelli’s Fortitude
In the Uffizi? — The worn, waiting face;
The pale, fine-fibred hands upon the mace;
The brow’s serenity, the lips that brood.
The vigilant, tired patience of her mood ?
There was a certain likeness I could trace
The day I heard her in a country place,
Talking to knitting women about Food.
Through cool statistics glowed the steady gleam
Of that still undismayed, interned desire;
But — strength and stay, and deeper than the dream —
The two commands that she is pledged to keep
In the red welter of a world on fire,
Are, ‘What is that to thee?’ and ‘Feed my sheep!’