The children of the dawn, trailed o’er the sky.
Still Raffaelle slept.
Near by his side
Were rudely strewn the handmaids of his toil;
And on his easel hung a picture full
Of beauty as the glow on Dian’s front.
No human eye had ever turned its gaze
Upon that fair and sacred thing, save one,
And little recked he now of bliss in store.
The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall,