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 being a smile exactly strange—
this painter should have loved my lady.
And by this throad 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.