POETRY.
UNSEEN.
AT the spring of an arch in the great north tower, High up on the wall, is an angel's head, And beneath it is carven a lily flower, With delicate wings at the side outspread.
They say that the sculptor wrought from the face Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride, And when he had added the last sad grace To the features, he dropped his chisel and died.
And the worshippers throng to the shrine below, And the sightseers come with their curious eyes, But deep in the shadow, where none may know Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies.
Yet at early morn on a midsummer's day, When the sun is far to the north, for the space Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray Through an amber pane on the angel's face.
It was wrought for the eye of God, and it seems That He blesses the work of the dead man's hand With a ray of the golden light that streams On the lost that are found in the deathless land.
A. J. C.
Previous page
