And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red,
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal,
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend I know,--
A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing,
Sandalphon, the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
_Longfellow._
* * * * *
HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS
The morning broke.--Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty.
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