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.