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.