Edith smiled,
“And eyes that see are blest!—and which sees most—
My worship, or your wonder? Know you, friend,”
She turn’d to me and asked,—“this critic’s ground?—
The Sistine Babe it was, we spoke of Him.
Because I find art’s glass, when rightly held,
Revealing through the real the truth ideal,
I said: ‘I seem to see not only Him,
The Babe, but back of Him, His heavenly home.
I seem to enter this—His handmaid there,