 | Western windows and other poems |  |
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THE SIGHT OF ANGELS.
The angels come, the angels go,
Through open doors of purer air;
Their moving presence oftentimes we know,
It thrills us every-where.
Through open doors of purer air;
Their moving presence oftentimes we know,
It thrills us every-where.
Sometimes we see them: lo, at night,
Our eyes were shut but open'd seem:
The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light,
And then it was a dream!
Our eyes were shut but open'd seem:
The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light,
And then it was a dream!
| Western windows and other poems | |