52
THE LAST ANGEL.
But one, the youngest, spent with innocent weeping
Touched by the weird moon with a tender beam,
Among the shadows in the straw lay sleeping,
Forgetting all, and laughing at her dream.
Touched by the weird moon with a tender beam,
Among the shadows in the straw lay sleeping,
Forgetting all, and laughing at her dream.
Her father looked at her and lifted slowly
His dying hand: "Give me my brush," he said.
When his Last Angel, radiant and holy,
Looked at him with his child's eyes, he was dead.
His dying hand: "Give me my brush," he said.
When his Last Angel, radiant and holy,
Looked at him with his child's eyes, he was dead.
