The Putto.

No child, no mortal child am I,     No angel from the blue on high,     And, though I gayly dance and shout,     No Cupid, from a Bacchic rout.     But I am all young innocence.     So young I do not know offence.     So very young I think that I     Will catch that bird, that butterfly.     Madonna, Lady, Queen of Heaven,     Or Mother, whose red wounds are seven,     Or waiting Virgin, mild and fair.     See, I will hide behind thy chair!     And round thy pulpit, friar gray,     Lo, I will frolic all the day!     My ways, perchance, are not divine.     But cannot hurt thee, no, nor thine!     And thou, little darling Christ,     'Tis long ere thou be sacrificed;     Do beckon me, thou pretty One,     And we will sing and laugh and run!     And at the last, why then will I     The earthly darkness beautify;     Dead Son, upon thy mother's knee,     While Heaven weeps blood, I garland thee!