“In heaven the angels are advancing continually to the springtime of their youth, so that the oldest angel appears the youngest.”
Not for them the length’ning shadows
Falling coldly round our lives,
Nearer, nearer through the ages
Life’s new spring for them arrives.
Not for them the doubt and anguish
Of an old and loveless age,
Dropping sadly tears of sorrow
On life’s faded, blotted page.
Not for them the mournful dimming
Of the weary, tear-stained eye,
That has seen the sad procession
Of its dearest hopes go by.
Not for them the hopeless clinging
To life’s worn and feeble strands,
Till the last has ceased to tremble
In our agèd, withered hands.
Never lines of light and darkness
Thread the brows forever fair,
And the eldest of the angels
Seems the youngest brother there.
There the stream of life doth never
Cross the mournful plains of death,
And the pearly gates are ever
Closed against his icy breath.