TRANSFIGURED.
Almost afraid they led her in
(A dwarf more piteous none could find);
Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,
The woman was—and wan and blind.
(A dwarf more piteous none could find);
Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,
The woman was—and wan and blind.
Into his mirror with a smile—
Not vain to be so fair, but glad—
The South-born painter looked the while,
With eyes than Christ's alone less sad.
Not vain to be so fair, but glad—
The South-born painter looked the while,
With eyes than Christ's alone less sad.
"Mother of God," in pale surprise
He whispered, "What am I to paint!"
A voice, that sounded from the skies,
Said to him: "Raphael, a saint."
He whispered, "What am I to paint!"
A voice, that sounded from the skies,
Said to him: "Raphael, a saint."
She sat before him in the sun:
He scarce could look at her, and she
Was still and silent. . . . "It is done,"
He said,—"Oh, call the world to see!"
He scarce could look at her, and she
Was still and silent. . . . "It is done,"
He said,—"Oh, call the world to see!"
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