Angels in the Churchyard

A saint there was, long time ago, And all in vain I tried His name to learn, or whence he came, Or how or where he died.

For he from whom the tale I heard Could tell me nothing more Save only that within him dwelt Of love an endless store.

And in the churchyard once he passed A summer night in prayer, For pity of the nameless dead Who lie forgotten there.

He knew not when the sun went down, So earnestly he prayed! He knew not when the twilight glow Was lost in deepening shade.

And when the fair, round moon arose Behind the wooded hill, She looked across the churchyard wall, And found him praying still.

But when the night was far along, And when the moon was high, When all the village lights were out, And closed was every eye,—

When low above the sleeping dead The folded daisies slept, And he alone his patient watch Until the morning kept,—

Came angels through the churchyard gate, But in no heavenly guise; So unadorned, he little thought They came from Paradise!

The moon lit up their robes of white; No other glory shone. He watched them, as they paused before One sunken, moss-grown stone,

And thrice their silver censers swung, As at some saintly shrine, But never incense burnt on earth Had perfume so divine.

Between the graves they glided on: Toward a cross they turned— A wooden cross that bore no name— And there the incense burned.

A fading garland on it hung, Of wild flowers simply twined; Whoever lay in that poor grave Had left some love behind.

But next they sought a dreary place Against the northern wall; He could not see if mound were there, The nettles grew so tall!

And on to others, three or four, Their noiseless steps they bent: Where'er they stayed, the incense rose; Then, as they came, they went.

But often to that churchyard green Did he at night repair; And ever, when the hour returned, The angels all were there.

He thought them only white-robed priests; And much he wondered why Each night at certain graves they stayed, While others they passed by.

Till, after waiting, wondering long, One night he forward pressed, And spoke with one who walked apart, A step behind the rest.

'T was starlight now; the moon had waned: He hardly saw the face Of him he talked with; but he felt Great peace was in the place.

"Of God's own saints," the angel said, "A few lie buried here; And He so loves them that to Him Their very dust is dear!

"So, while their souls with perfect peace Are in His presence blest, He will not that these humble graves Should all unhonoured rest.

"Each night from heaven He sends us down. Where'er His flowers are sown— These bodies that shall one day rise, All glorious like His own!"

The saint was silent, for his lips Could find no word to say: He stood entranced, and like to one Whose soul is far away.

At length he roused; the stars were dim, The night had half withdrawn: A light was in the eastern sky, The clear pale light of dawn.

Then came a freshening in the air, A twitter in the trees, A ripple in the dewy grass That felt the early breeze;

And sounded from the tower above The sweet-toned, ancient bell; While bright and busy over all The summer morning fell.

The daisies opened; happy birds Sang in the sunshine free. The dead alone are sleeping now; Their morning is to be.