Mine art may haply reproduce that wealth

Of brilliant hues—the dusk hair's glimmering gold,

The auroral blush, the bare breasts shining white

Where the babe's warm rose-face is pressed against

That fount of generous life; but ah! what craft

May paint the unearthly peace upon her brow,

The holy love that from her dark moist orbs

Beams with no lesser glory than the eyes

Of the Maid-Mother toward her heaven-born Child.

Little Boy with the Cross.