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.

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs—
That phraseless Melody—
The Wind does—working like a Hand—
Whose fingers Comb the Sky—
Then quiver down, with tufts of Tune—
Permitted Gods—and me—

Inheritance it is to us
Beyond the Art to Earn—
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber—since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers—
And inner than the Bone
Hid golden, for the whole of days—
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play,
In some odd fashion of it’s own—
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands—
And thrum open the Door,
And Birds take places—overhead—
To bear them Orchestra—

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs—
If such an Outcast be—
Who never heard that fleshless Chant—
Rise solemn on the Tree—
As if some Caravan of Sound—
Off Deserts in the Sky—
Had parted Rank—
Then knit and swept
In Seamless Company—