TRANSFIGURED - Sara Teasdale Poems


Poems » sara teasdale » 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, that 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.