Madonna Mia

　　A lily-girl， not made for this world's pain，

　　With brown， soft hair close braided by her ears，

　　And longing¹ eyes half veiled by slumberous² tears

　　Like bluest water seen through mists of rain：

　　Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain，

　　Red underlip drawn³ in for fear of love，

　　And white throat， whiter than the silvered dove，

　　Through whose wan⁴ marble creeps one purple vein⁵.

　　Yet， though my lips shall praise her without cease，

　　Even to kiss her feet I am not bold，

　　Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe⁶，

　　Like Dante， when he stood with Beatrice

　　Beneath the flaming Lion's breast， and saw

　　The seventh Crystal， and the Stair of Gold.