To be sure, a doubting Thomas
I do not believe in them –
In the heavens clerics promise
Via Rome or Jerusalem.
But that angels are for real,
This I’ve never held in doubt;
Radiant creatures, pure, ideal,
Here on earth they walk about.
Sporting wings, you think? Now, duly
This, dear lady, I deny.
There are wingless angels truly –
I have seen them, even I.
Lovingly their white hands tend us,
Lovingly their visage glows
As they cherish and defend us,
Warding off misfortune’s blows.
Great their favour! And to know it
Comforts all, but most indeed
Him whom people call a poet
And whose wounds still doubly bleed.