Till, when you'd have to go to sleep
Or else you'd have to die,
They let you Out,—and straight into
The Sky!
With nests all hiding up the Trees,
And Roads to make you Run:—
And everything like Squirrels!—
In the Sun—the Sun!
Angels
hey are more shy than Snow.
You may look up and try to see one there,
Just when you feel It breathing on your hair;
But then It has to go.—
Somehow, I know.
They want you to believe
How bright they are, and never try to see
Whether they keep their word. For that would be
As if they could deceive.
That makes them grieve.
So, if you want Yours near,
And hide your eyes and keep quite still; and say,
"Oh, I have Wanted you all day—all day;
Shine at me, Angel, dear!"
It will be Here.