Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/486

And the moist tendrils of his golden hair
Fell softly on his forehead, he cried out:
"The boy is like an angel! And thy face,
Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,
But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,
And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,
As thus, or thus."
      The child was half afraid;
And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,
Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,
Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I held
Him close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,
"O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!
I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.
And thou and this fair child——"
      Even while he spoke
He turned back to the easel; but I sprang
From the low pedestal, and, with the boy
Still in my arms, I fell down at his feet.
"Not that, not that, my father!" swift I cried,
While my hot forehead touched his garment's hem;
"Not that, for God's sake! Paint me otherwise.
Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,
As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe'er you will,
Only not that, not that!"
      Smiling he stooped
And raised me from the ground, and took the child
In unaccustomed arms all tenderly,
Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.
"But why 'not that,' my daughter? Nothing else
Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,
Only the Virgin and her Holy Child."
  Then suddenly I saw it all—the light
Dim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,
The swinging censers, candles burning clear,