Lloyd Mifflin

UPON a cloud among the stars we stood.
The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
'Which world, of all yon starry myriad,
...

Then that dread angel near the awful throne,
Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming tiers,
Winged his dark way through those unpinioned spheres,
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Then that dread angel near the awful throne,
   Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming tiers,
   Winged his dark way through those unpinioned spheres,
And on the void's black beetling edge, alone,
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Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.
The angel raised his hand and looked and said,
"Which world, of all yon starry myriad,
Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude
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Vast Chaos, of eld, was God's dominion,
'Twas His beloved child, His own first born;
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HIS feet were shod with music and had wings
Like Hermes: far upon the peaks of song
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SOLE Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,
He sits within the desert, carved in stone;
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AS through the Void we went I heard his plumes
Strike on the darkness. It was passing sweet
To hold his hand and feel that thin air beat
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I LAY on Delos of the Cyclades
At evening, on a cape of golden land;
The blind Bard’s book was open in my hand,
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THEY who create rob death of half its stings;
They, from the dim inane and vague opaque
Of nothingness, build with their thought, and make
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Thes. Nay, I have loved thee!
Ari. Thou hast loved, didst say?
Thes. I loved thee well at Crete.
Ari. Lov’st me no more?
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ART thou some wingëd Sprite, that, fluttering round,
Exhausted on the grass at last doth lie,
Or wayward Fay? Ah, weakling, by and by
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DAUGHTER of Venice, fairer than the moon!
From thy dark casement leaning, half divine,
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NONE call thee flower! . . . I will not so malign
The satin softness of thy plumed seed,
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed,
...