The angels are bending
Above your white bed,
They weary of tending
The souls of the dead.

God smiles in high heaven
To see you so good,
The old planets seven
Grow gay with his mood.

I kiss you and kiss you,
With arms round my own,
Ah, how shall I miss you,
When, dear, you have grown.

Angel spirits of sleep,
White-robed, with silver hair;
In your meadows fair,
Where the willows weep,
And the sad moonbeam
On the gliding stream
Writes her scattered dream:

— Angel spirits of sleep,
Dancing to the weir
In the hollow roar
Of its waters deep;
Know ye how men say
That ye haunt no more
Isle and grassy shore
With your moonlit play;
That ye dance not here,
White-robed spirits of sleep,
All the summer night
Threading dances light?

The Angel saith to Joseph mild
Fly with the Mother and the Child,
Out of this land to Egypt go,
The Heavenly Babe will have it so;
For that his hour is not yet come,
To die for Man's Redemption.

Proud Herod he doth froth and frown
Feareth to lose Kingdom and Crown,
Full of distain and full of scorn,
He must destroy this young King born;
But stay, his hour is not yet come
To die for Man's Redemption.

Herod, forbear this cruel flood
Of the most pure innocent Blood,
To thee a crown this Child doth bring

Angel of peace, thou hast wandered too long!
Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love!
Come while our voices are blending in song,
Fly to our ark like the storm beaten dove!
Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove!
Speed o'er the far sounding billows of song,
Crowned with thine olive leaf garland of love,
Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long!

Brothers we met, on this altar of thine,
Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee,
Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,
Breeze of the prairie, and breath of the sea,

Angel , hast thou betrayed me? Long ago
In the Forgotten Land of souls that wait,
Thou leddest me to the outward-folding gate,
Bidding me live. I leaned into the flow
Of earthward-rushing spirits, fain to know
What are humanity and human fate
Of which the rumor reached to where we sate
In our cool, hidden, dreamless ante-glow.
But I learn not, and am bewildered here
To know why thou with seeming-kindly hands
Didst let me forth, explorer of a star
Where all is strange, and very often Fear
Urges retreat to that Forgotten Land's

An angel came to me and stood by my bedside,
Remarking in a professorial-historical-economic and irritated voice,
“If the Romans had only invented a decent explosion-engine!
Not even the best, not even a Ford V-8
But, say, a Model T or even an early Napier,
They'd have built good enough roads for it (they knew how to build roads)
From Cape Wrath to Cape St. Vincent, Susa, Babylon and Moscow,
And the motorized legions never would have fallen,
And peace, in the shape of a giant eagle, would brood over the entire Western World!”

Andrew Rose, the British sailor,
Now to you his woes I'll name.
'Twas on the passage from Barbados
Whilst on board of the Martha Jane.
Chorus

Wasn't that most cruel usage,
Without a friend to interpose?
How they whipped and mangled, gagged and strangled
The British sailor, Andrew Rose.

'Twas on the quarterdeck they laid him,
Gagged him with an iron bar.
Wasn't that most cruel usage
To put upon a British tar?

'Twas up aloft the captain sent him,
Naked beneath the burning sun,
Whilst the mate did follow after,

Andonis is the spring song like
sun spirits are manito's together
maple sugar in its first taste, me-na-wah
samaras on rainy days blossom
pierce the sky in three lifetimes
air winy with rain
red rim on evenfall
Andonis is the spring song, me-na-wah--

And yet the woman, who all things remembers,
Writhing her limbs as serpents on the embers,
Beating her breasts, as if herself she hated,
Utters these words by her musk impregnated:
—“I, my lips are moist, and I know the science
Of losing in a bed's depths my defiance;
I dry all tears of all that have the passion
For these my breasts, my laughter is their fashion.
I replace, for those men who see me naked,
The sun, the moon, the stars, so must you take it!
I have, dear learned man, the power to rifle

And will they cast the altars down,
Scatter the chalice, crush the bread?
In field, in village, and in town
He hides an unregarded head;

Waits in the corn-lands far and near,
Bright in His sun, dark in His frost,
Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear —
Lonely unconsecrated Host.

In ambush at the merry board,
The Victim lurks unsacrificed;
The mill conceals the harvest's Lord,
The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ.