With drooping wings the angels sit
Among the florid vegetation.
Some fiery swords half-hearted hold:
Hear: joyous angels wail in desolation!
The air is cold without, although
The garden, like a celebration,
Bums still brightly on, and gray
The light, despite the keen illumination
There, within.
O angels, weep, weep!
Till garden steam to swamp
And mists obscure the rays
That mock you as you pass,
Or sit, among the trees,
Plaining your distress
In tones unearthly sweet,
Unearthly desolate.
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