In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings--
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty--
Where Love's a grown-up God--
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit--
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute--
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely--flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he were I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
Above my desk, whirring and self-important
(Though not much larger than a hummingbird)
In finely woven robes, school of Van Eyck,
Hovers an evidently angelic visitor.
He points one index finger out the window
At winter snatching to its heart,
To crystal vacancy, the misty
Exhalations of houses and of people running home
From the cold sun pounding on the sea;
While with the other hand
He indicates the piano
Where the Sarabande No. 1 lies open
At a passage I shall never master
But which has alerady, and effortlessly mastered me.
He drops his jaw as if to say, or sing,
Between the world God made
And this music of Satie,
Each glimpsed through veils, but whole,
Radiant and willed,
Demanding praise, demanding surrender,
How can you sit there with your notebook?
What do you think you are doing?'
However he says nothing-wisely: I could mention
Flaws in God's world, or Satie's; and for that matter
How did he come by his taste for Satie?
Half to tease him, I turn back to my page,
Its phrases thus far clotted, unconnected.
The tiny angel shakes his head.
There is no smile on his round, hairless face.
He does not want even these few lines written.
A poor - torn heart - a tattered heart -
That sat it down to rest -
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver to the West -
Nor noticed Night did soft descend -
Nor Constellation burn -
Intent upon the vision
Of latitude unknown.
The angels - happening that way
This dusty heart espied -
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God -
There - sandals for the Barefoot -
There - gathered from the gales -
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.
When angels sense you need them,
And angels always do.
They come, unseen, from everywhere,
To help and comfort you.
They hover close beside you,
Till all your cares are gone.
Till they can see you're ready,
Once again to carry on.
Then some of them fly away,
And take their gentle touch.
To other hearts that need the love,
Of angels very much.
But one, at least, stays with you,
As your constant friend and guide.
For guardian angels never leave,
They're always at your side.
To love for the sake
Of being loved is Human.
But to love for the sake
Of loving is Angelic.
Spend all your time waiting for that second chance
For the break that will make it OK
There's always some reason to feel not good enough
And it's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction or a beautiful release
Memories seep from my veins
Let me be empty and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
In the arms of the Angel far away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent revelrie
You're in the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
So tired of the straight line, and everywhere you turn
There's vultures and thieves at your back
The storm keeps on twisting, you keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack
It don't make no difference, escaping one last time
It's easier to believe
In this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness
That brings me to my knees
In the arms of the Angel far away from here
From this dark, cold hotel room, and the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent revelrie
In the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
You're in the arms of the Angel; may you find some comfort here
O! memory, the painter!
Limns upon my brain
The faces of beloved ones
I'll never see again!
There is one sainted picture --
O, fancy keep it near! --
'Mid golden hair, Madonna eyes,
Serene, and deep, and clear.
We knew she was an Angel,
We knew she could not stay!
And long we waited tearfully
To see her fly away!
We knew that she was passing
Thro' life untouched, serene,
As far from earth's impurities
As Christ from Magdalene.
The Angels wearied for her,
And so from Paradise
Death came, and kissed her tenderly,
His hand upon her eyes!
And as a flower at evening
Folds its leaves to rest,
She meekly crossed her whitened hands
Upon her peaceful breast:
Laid so white and beautiful,
So full of holy trust,
It seemed a shame to lay so pure
A flower in the dust.
We saw no seraph's pinions,
We saw no mystic things;
But going from our hearts we felt
An Angel's rustling wings!
Lead me, O my guardian angel,
So I pray, and ever pray,
Where the light winds sing their lightest,
Where the bright things bloom their brightest,
And the flowery fields of May
Stretch away, and still away!
Lead and leave me, O my angel,
Where the wild birds, day by day,
Chirp and sing their light love-stories,
All among the golden glories
Of the flowery fields of May,
Stretched away, and still away!
Where the rose doth wear her blushes
Like a garment, and the fair
And modest violets sit together,
Weaving in the mild May weather
Purples, out of dew and air,
Fit for any queen to wear.
But, my angel, my good angel,
This much more I have to say --
O'er the blooming and the singing,
O'er the weaving and the winging,
Grant to live with me, I pray,
In these flowery fields of May;
Friends to love with love that only
Lives of men and women sway --
Over and above the hushes
Of all birds, above the blushes
Of the reddest rose in May --
And yet once again I pray,
That when thou shalt give them to me,
Alway, heart in heart to beat,
They shall make all flowery places
Fairer for their smiling faces,
And whatever things are sweet --
Brighter, better, more complete.
Not for time and sense, O angel,
Dare I thus entreat of thee
Into flowery fields to take me --
'T is the things I see that make me
For the things I cannot see --
For the long eternity.
You say that nobody has ever seen
A ghost, Mamma? I think that you are right.
People who die, as little Maudie died,
And dwell in Heaven and play on golden harps,
And float along with beautiful white wings,
Why should they ever ask to visit earth,
Even if God would let them? I believe
They do not come -- except as Maudie comes,
Not seen, not heard, but somehow standing near
My bedside, on the nights of loneliest days,
When I have missed her, ah, so drearily! --
Remembering her glossy curls, her smile,
Her pretty ways, her cunning, gentle talk,
And how her warm, pink arms would clasp my neck
For good-night kisses. Often I awake
And know, Mamma, that she is with me. Morning
Has not yet broken, and the room is dark
And very still. I listen for the sound
Of tiny feet upon the floor -- the same
Whose steps made merry patterings long ago,
But stir not under those blue myrtles, now,
That tremble on her grave. I listen,
But there is silence only. Then I say
Softly, below my breath: "She is not here;
She cannot come; she is away with God."
And yet I listen, listen, till at last,
Longing to have her with me, in a voice
A little louder than before, I whisper:
"O Maudie, darling Maudie, are you there?"
And then, it seems, a murmured answer comes,
Quite low and tremulous and musical,
As if an older, wiser Maudie spoke
Out from the shadows: "I am here; I watch,
When you are sleeping, always by your bed.
I love you, I remember you; I am
Your Maudie, just as in the other days."
O very sweet it is to hear those words,
And I am sure I do not fancy them,
Lying awake and shedding thankful tears,
And in the solemn darkness not afraid.
Angel Sites
Touched By An Angel
Ten Thousand Angels Cried
*****This site is still under construction*****
