A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain, <br /> With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, <br /> And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears <br /> Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: <br /> Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, <br /> Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, <br /> And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, <br /> Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein. <br /> Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, <br /> Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, <br /> Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe. <br /> Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice <br /> Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw <br /> The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.<br /><br />Oscar Wilde<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/madonna-mia/
