The Angels.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

"Where are the angels, mother?
Though you have often said
They watched at night around me,
And safely kept my bed;

"Though every night I listen
Their voices low to hear,
Yet I have never heard them,--
Where are they, mother dear?

"And when the silver moonshine
Fills all my room with light,
And when the stars are shining,
So countless and so bright.

"I hope to see them coming,
With their fair forms, to me;
Yet I have never seen them,--
Mother, where can they be?

"I saw a cloud, this evening,
Red with the setting sun;
It was so very lovely,
I thought it might be one.

"But when it faded slowly,
I knew it could not be,
For they are always shining;
Why come they not to me?"

"My child, when through your window
Shines down the moonlight clear,--
When all is still and silent,
And no kind friend is near,--

"Are you not glad and happy,
And full of thoughts of love?
Do you not think of heaven.
That brighter land above?

"These thoughts the angels bring you;
And though the gentle tone
Of their sweet voices comes not
When you are all alone;

"Yet they are always leaving,
For earth, their homes on high;
And though you cannot see them,
You feel that they are nigh."