And crudely painted it may be,
But still, I love her oval face,
Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace
Of drooping head and arm too frail
To hold that heavy baby. Pale
The cheek that once was painted pink,
Faded the crimson mouth. I think
So wistful sweet she is and small
That I would dare to whisper all
My littlest sins to her, for she
Would never frown and frighten me.
She is not proud and stiff and great
Like the Madonna was who sate
Above the altar looking down
In cloth of gold and jewelled crown.
I think of her each windy night,
How by the smoking candles' light
She watches with her patient eyes
Such mimic storms as may arise
Within the wee canal. Each day
Do I salute her on my way
Along the via, and I bring
For her some dainty offering
Two yellow marigolds as bright
As are the gilded roses dight
Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet,
A tiny sprig of mignonette.
But still, I love her oval face,
Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace
Of drooping head and arm too frail
To hold that heavy baby. Pale
The cheek that once was painted pink,
Faded the crimson mouth. I think
So wistful sweet she is and small
That I would dare to whisper all
My littlest sins to her, for she
Would never frown and frighten me.
She is not proud and stiff and great
Like the Madonna was who sate
Above the altar looking down
In cloth of gold and jewelled crown.
I think of her each windy night,
How by the smoking candles' light
She watches with her patient eyes
Such mimic storms as may arise
Within the wee canal. Each day
Do I salute her on my way
Along the via, and I bring
For her some dainty offering
Two yellow marigolds as bright
As are the gilded roses dight
Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet,
A tiny sprig of mignonette.
[ 22 ]
