Sandalphon

Have you read in the Talmud of old,     In the Legends the Rabbins have told         Of the limitless realms of the air,--     Have you read it,--the marvellous story     Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,         Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?     How, erect, at the outermost gates     Of the City Celestial he waits,         With his feet on the ladder of light,     That, crowded with angels unnumbered,     By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered         Alone in the desert at night?     The Angels of Wind and of Fire     Chant only one hymn, and expire         With the song's irresistible stress;     Expire in their rapture and wonder,     As harp-strings are broken asunder         By music they throb to express.     But serene in the rapturous throng,     Unmoved by the rush of the song,         With eyes unimpassioned and slow,     Among the dead angels, the deathless     Sandalphon stands listening breathless         To sounds that ascend from below;--     From the spirits on earth that adore,     From the souls that entreat and implore         In the fervor and passion of prayer;     From the hearts that are broken with losses,     And weary with dragging the crosses         Too heavy for mortals to bear.     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.