Classic Poem

Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
— — Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it, — the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
— — Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,
— — With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
— — Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
— — With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
— — By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,
— — With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless
— — To sounds that ascend from below; —

From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore
— — In the fervor and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
— — Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
— — Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
— — Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

— — It is but a legend, I know, —
A fable, a phantom, a show,
— — Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
— — But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
— — All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
— — His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
— — The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
— — To quiet its fever and pain.