We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,

The gift and heirloom of a former state,

And lie in infancy at Heaven’s gate,

Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands!

Around our pillows golden ladders rise,

And up and down the skies,

With winged sandals shod,

The angels come, and go, the messengers of God!

Nor do they, fading from us, e’er depart,—

It is the childish heart;