There came no sounding sweep of angel wings,
No frowning fury rushing on to tread
The wrathful wine-press of avenging God;
But the rich music of a “still, small voice,”
From the far arches of the vaulted sky
Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath
Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line
Of universal being, till it thrilled
A new creation into loving life,
Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere,