She sits in a high, ancient black oaken pew,
Which almost conceals her fair face from my view;
The sweetest of pictures, it can't be denied,
With two tiny sisters who sit by her side:
And they lisp the responses and kneel down to pray,
With their little hands locked in the palm of Saint May.
Of saints I've seen many in churches before—
In Florence or Venice, they're there by the score;
Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—