As angels tapped upon my door,

And a dim light from paradise

Fell on the instruments they bore.

One held a zithern in her hand

And lightly swept the throbbing strings;

And, O! it seemed a fairy land

Was stirred by unexpected wings.

I held my breath and prayed that night

Would be extended into day,

But with the thought came morning’s light,

And low the echo died away.

An artist’s canvas, pink with dawn,

The second angel turned to me,

Her brush strayed o’er a grassy lawn

And dotted here and there a tree.

All blooming in immortal dyes,

With streamlets winding clear and blue,

Where, looking from the far off skies,

The clouds were mirrored to my view.

But when the sun blazed from the sky,

And on the painted landscape shone,

I heard the artist angel sigh,

And when I looked she, too, had flown.

The scratching of a pen I heard

And saw a face demure and sweet

With inspiration. Every word

I begged the angel to repeat.

A thousand zephyrs fanned the air,

Tuned low with hum of birds and bees,

No need of zithern music where

Æolian harps were in the trees.

No need of artists to rehearse

Upon the canvas nature, when

I saw the world revolve in verse