The Angel in the Cloud

CONTENTS
Copyright, 1907 Sumner Fuller Parham TO THE HALLOWED MEMORY OF MY FATHER, WHO, EVEN WHILE I WAS GAZING UPON THE GOLDEN CITY PASSED WITHIN ITS WALLS, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, WITH TEARS.
To those who may favor these pages with perusal, I make this earnest request: that, if they commence, they will read all. Knowing that the best mode of dealing with doubts is to state and refute, successively, I regret that the plan of the present work forces a separation of the statement and refutation. To read one without the other were to defeat the object in view; hence my request.
Many of the subjects of thought are worn smooth with the touch of ages, so that hope for originality is as slender as the bridge of Al Sirat; but in the bulrush ark of self-confidence, pitched with Faith, I commit my first-born to the Nile of public opinion; whether to perish by crocodile critics, or bask in the palace of favor, the Future, alone, must determine. May Pharaoh’s daughter find it!
E. W. F.
Louisburg, Jan. 17th, 1871.
First published more than thirty-five years ago, in the lifetime of the poet, THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD has long since passed not only out of print but out of the memory of most living men. Of the copies of the original edition, only few are known to exist. Upon his surviving family is imposed the obligation, and to them comes the privilege, of rescuing from the realm of forgotten things these evidences of a graceful and genuine poetic gift in one whose memory they revere and whose genius they are unwilling to have die. It is therefore with the sense of performing a grateful duty that they have caused to be printed this new edition of Edwin Fuller’s poems, in the hope and belief that others, like themselves, will value it both as friends of the gentle poet and as disinterested lovers of good literature.
August, 1907.


’Twas noon in August, and the sultry heat Had driven me from sunny balcony Into the shaded hall, where spacious doors Stood open wide, and lofty windows held Their sashes up, to woo the breeze, in vain. The filmy lace that curtained them was still, And every silken tassel hung a-plumb. The maps and unframed pictures o’er the wall Gave not a rustle; only now and then Was heard the jingling sound of melting ice, Deep in a massive urn, whose silver sides With trickling dewbeads ran. The little birds, Up in their cages, perched with open beaks, And throbbing throats, upon the swaying rings, Or plashed the tepid water in their cups With eager breast. My favorite pointer lay, With lolling tongue, and rapid panting sides, Beside my chair, upon the matted floor. All things spoke heat, oppressive heat intense, Save swallows twittering up the chimney-flue, Whose hollow flutterings sounded cool alone. To find relief I seized my hat and book, And fled into the park. Along a path Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white, Between two rows of closely shaven hedge, I passed towards a latticed summer-house; A fairy bower, built in Eastern style, With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work, O’er which was spread the jasmine’s leafy net, To snare the straying winds. Within I fell Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned My streaming face in vain. The very winds Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat To rise from parchèd lawn and scorching fields, Like trembling incense to the blazing god. The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel; And e’en the feath’ry pendula of spray, With faintest oscillation, dared not wave. The withered flowers shed a hot perfume, That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, And rest beneath the ivy parasols. The butterflies refrained from aimless flight, And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings. The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet An inch above its tube; the basin deigned A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall, And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish All huddled ’neath the jutting ledge’s shade, Where, burnished like their magnet toy types, They rose and fell as if inanimate; Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin, Turned in their places pettishly around; While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun Like crystal dimples on the water’s face. The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge, With gaping jaws, and stony, fixèd eyes, That ever on the pool glared thirstily. Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped The deer, their noses lowered to the earth, To snuff a cooler air; their slender feet Impatient stamping at the teasing flies; While o’er their heads the branching antlers spread, A mocking skeleton of shade! A fawn, Proud of his dappled coat, played here and there, Regardless of repose; the silver bell, That tinkled from a band of broidered silk, Proclaiming him a petted favorite. Save him alone, all things in view sought rest, And wearied Nature seemed to yield the strife, And smold’ring wait her speedy sacrifice.