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!