Transfigured

Almost afraid they led her in
(A dwarf more piteous none could find):
Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,
The woman was--and wan and blind.

Into his mirror with a smile--
Not vain to be so fair, but glad--
The South-born painter looked the while,
With eyes than Christ's alone less sad.

"Mother of God," in pale surprise
He whispered, "what am I to paint!"
A voice, that sounded from the skies,
Said to him, "Raphael, a saint."

She sat before him in the sun:
He scarce could look at her, and she
Was still and silent.... "It is done,"
He said.--"Oh, call the world to see!"

Ah, this was she in veriest truth--
Transcendent face and haloed hair.
The beauty of divinest youth,
Divinely beautiful, was there.

Herself into her picture passed--
Herself and not her poor disguise,
Made up of time and dust.... At last
One saw her with the Master's eyes.