by little accurate saints thickly which tread

the serene nervous light of paradise—

by angelfaces clustered like bright lice

about god's capable dull important head—

by on whom glories whisperingly impinge

(god's pretty mother)but may not confuse

the clever hair nor rout the young mouth whose

lips begin a smile exactly strange—

this painter should have loved my lady.

And by this throat a little suddenly lifted

in singing—hands fragile whom almost tire

the sleepshaped lilies—

should my lady's body

with these frail ladies dangerously respire:

impeccable girls in raiment laughter-gifted.