Page:The college beautiful, and other poems.djvu/42

And the organ-front with its gilded stripes,
My glorious angel lies sleeping at ease.
And the hand of a stranger may beat at his gate,
And the ear of a stranger may listen and wait,
But he only cries in his pain for these,
Witless to please.

Angel, my angel, the old man's hand
Knoweth thy silver way;
I loose thy lips from their silence-band
And over thy heart-strings my fingers play,
While the song peals forth from thy mellow-throat,
And my spirit climbs on the climbing note,
Till I mingle thy tone with the tones away,
Over the day.

So I look up as I follow the tone,
Up with my dim old eyes,
And I wonder if organs have angels alone,
Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise,
Each man in his heart folds an angel with wings,
An angel that slumbers, but wakens and sings,
When thrilled by the touch that is sympathy-wise,
Bidding it rise.