YOU think there are no angels any more—
No angels come to tell us in the night
Of joy or sorrow, love or death—
No breath of wings, no touch of palm to say
Divinity is near.
Our revelations come
By telephone, or postman at the door,
You say—
Oh no, the hour when fate is near,
Not these, the voices that can make us hear,
Not these
Have power to pierce below the stricken mind
Deep down into perception’s quivering core.
Blows fall unheeded on the bolted door;
Deafly we listen; blindly look; and still
Our fingers fumbling with the lock are numb,
The Angels come.
Oh, do you not recall
It was a tree,
Gushing from earth so passionately straight
And tall,
That made you see, at last, what giant force
Lay pushing in your heart?
And was it not that spray
Of dogwood blossoms, white across your road,
That all at once made grief too great a load
To bear?
No angels any more, you say,
No towering sword, no angry seas divide —
No angels —
But a single bud of quince,
Flowering out of season on the day
She died,
Cracked suddenly across a porcelain world!