Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/The Last Angel
< Poems (Piatt) | Volume 1
THE LAST ANGEL.A STORY TOLD OF CORREGGIO.
The monks had shut his picture in, and,—yearning
For one more last look, one, and yet one more,—
Heavily laden, with the hollows burning
In his dusk cheek, he left the convent door.
For one more last look, one, and yet one more,—
Heavily laden, with the hollows burning
In his dusk cheek, he left the convent door.
Through the South sun he wandered homeward, moaning:
"His Christ for silver gave the Jew of old;
Have I not sinned like him beyond atoning?
My Christ for copper I to-day have sold."
"His Christ for silver gave the Jew of old;
Have I not sinned like him beyond atoning?
My Christ for copper I to-day have sold."
Alone he walked, afraid to meet the faces
He loved the most on earth—Ah, bitter fate!
His beautiful starving children, with hot traces
Of tears on cheeks, were crowded at the gate.
He loved the most on earth—Ah, bitter fate!
His beautiful starving children, with hot traces
Of tears on cheeks, were crowded at the gate.
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.