Poetry Archives

We see them not—we cannot hear
  The music of their wing—
Yet know we that they sojourn near,
  The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground
  When the first violet grows;
Their graceful hands have just unbound
  The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast,
  From stain and shadow free:
That which an Angel’s touch hath blest
  Is meet, my love, for thee!