In the city angels spire,
moonlight falling on their wings;
each is a harp of mystic fire.
The wind, their very heart's desire,
sweeps across their starlit strings:
they quiver, straighten, sigh, and sing.
I heard one night their carols played
across the moonlit meadow's grass.
Each note, like soft and silver rays,
upon the breeze would dance and sway
and leap; then lightly would it pass,
like whispers straying from God's Mass.
When I once, a blond-bright child,
looked into the sunset sky,
I saw a city, blessed and wild,
never ruined nor yet defiled,
glory-vaulting in clouds on high;
each sunset brings that city nigh.
My eyes, now tired in my bed,
like stones will draw me into sleep;
there all my cares are gently shed
and pictures play inside my head;
and I, in some dark ocean deep,
grow wise, and angel-counsels keep.