Are clearer of sight than we,
And they note not only the thing that we are,
But the thing that we fain would be,—
The hint of gold in the cumbering dross,
Of fruit on the bare, cold tree.
And I think that at times the angels
Must smile as mothers smile
At the peevish babies on their knees,
Loving them all the while,
And cheating the little ones of their pain