LOUD roared the tempest, Fast fell the sleet; A little Child Angel Passed down the street, With trailing pinions And weary feet. The moon was hidden; No stars were bright; So she could not shelter In heaven that night, For the Angels’ ladders Are rays of light. She beat her wings At each windowpane, And pleaded for shelter, But all in vain;— “Listen,” they said, “To the pelting rain!” She sobb’d, as the laughter And mirth grew higher, “Give me rest and shelter Beside your fire, And I will give you Your heart’s desire.” The dreamer sat watching His embers gleam, While his heart was floating Down hope’s bright stream; …So he wove her wailing Into his dream. The worker toil’d on, For his time was brief; The mourner was nursing Her own pale grief; They heard not the promise That brought relief. But fiercer the tempest Rose than before, When the Angel paus’d At a humble door, And ask’d for shelter And help once more. A weary woman, Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel And took her in: Took her in gently, And did her best To dry her pinions; And made her rest With tender pity Upon her breast. When the eastern morning Grew bright and red, Up the first sunbeam The Angel fled; Having kiss’d the woman And left her—dead.
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