Than his, her Child’s—his Mother, was she not?
More near the round cheeks drew: protesting lips
Would have the Mother with His glory crowned.
Telling the little one how God alone
The nimbus wears wherein is lined the cross,
I traced along the Mother’s simpler ring,
With gilded brush, a circle of fair stars
That in the asking eyes by far outshone
The shadowy cross’s sorrow-dimmed halo.
And so the maiden was well comforted,