Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Two Angels
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)T
Passed o’er our village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.
Alike their features and their robes of white,
But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed,
“Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray
The place where thy beloved are at rest!”
Descending, at my door began to knock,
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake’s shock.
The terror and the tremor and the pain,
That oft before had filled or haunted me,
And now returned with threefold strength again.
And listened, for I thought I heard God’s voice:
And, knowing whatsoe’er He sent was best,
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice.
“My errand is not Death, but Life,” he said;
And ere I answered, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.
The angel with the amaranthine wreath,
Pausing, descended, and with voice divine,
Whispered a word that had a sound like Death.
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room,
Two angels issued, where but one went in.
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,
Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud.
Without his leave they pass no threshold o’er;
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against his messengers to shut the door!