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!