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.