A Phase of the Angelic

I wonder not that artists’ hands,
Inspired by themes of joy
To picture forms of angel-bands,
Paint, first of all, the boy.

I know if I were set the task
To lure a man’s desire
By traits the heavenliest one could ask,
When most our souls aspire,

I would not take a blushing bride,
For she may wed for pelf;
Nor him who stands the bride beside,
He may but love himself;

Nor matron, with her thoughts confined
To maxims meant for youth;
Nor man mature: too oft his mind
Will close to others’ truth.

But I would blend the purity
Of her whom I adore
With manly power for mastery
And promise yet in store.

So I would take the boy who roams
Toward life, half understood,
From thresholds of those holy homes
That face alone the good;—

A boy who has not reach’d the brink
Where vice will cross his track,
Whose wish that loathes the wish to drink
Still keeps the tempter back;—

A boy who hardly knows of ill,
Or ill can apprehend,
With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill,
And faith that fears no end.

And oh, I know that those who love
The purest part of joy,
Would choose with me from all above
The heaven that held my boy.