  A precious place is Paradise and none may know its worth, But Eden ever longeth for the knickknacks of the earth. The angels grow quite wistful over worldly things below; They hear the hurdy-gurdies in the Candle Maker’s Row. They listen for the laughter from the attics of the earth; They lower pails from heaven’s walls to catch the milkmaids’ mirth. By turns they scan the shadow of the dial on the wall; The rams’ heads of that drawbridge never lowered since the fall. They sway with sweet misgivings, that on rising somewhat late They may hear unusual noises by the battlemented gate. See warders at each windlass, every rusty chain a-cry; See a ponderous portcullis rise, a drawbridge downward fly. Perchance some summer morning and with no one on the wall, The warders may get orders and the drawbridge swiftly fall. A wingless one may be the first to stumble on the scene And vision earth and heaven, with a rustic bridge between. |
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