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AZRAEL.
AZRAEL.
OF all the angels whose melodious breath
The Sapphire Throne with praise encompasseth,
Amid that rainbow-plumed, ecstatic choir
Most beautiful art thou, benignant Death.
For we who dwell beneath this cloudy tent
Some changing years, are all too early spent
By covert griefs that fret the heart like fire,
Our staffs soon broken and our sandals rent.
Though sweet the grace of moon-enchanted night
And day serene in amethystine light,
Matched with the joys of sense, our souls rise
higher,
And human tears may shut the stars from sight.
But, awful Friend, the touch of thy chill palm
Falls on the fevered heart like healing balm,
Till fitful bliss, keen pain and wild desire
Lie hushed together in most holy calm.
