Western windows and other poems | ||
150
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 | ||