The Boy and The Angel
by Robert Browning
Morning, evening, noon, and night,
" Praise God ! " sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell.
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, " Praise God!"
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;"
I doubt not thou art heard my son :
" As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
" This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter's dome."
Said Theocrite, " Would God that I
Might praise him that great way, and die!"
Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth.
Spread his wings and sank to earth;
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell.
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;
And morning, evening, noon and night.
Praised God in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling's hue:
The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:
And ever o'er the trade he bent.
And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)
God said, " A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:
"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.
"Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss my little human praise."
Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by
The greater outer gallery,
With his holy vestments, dight.
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:
And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,
Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned.
And on his sight the angel burned.
"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
I set thee here; I did not well.
"Vainly I left my angel-sphere.
Vain was thy dream of many a year.
" Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped,
Creation's chorus stopped!
" Go back and praise again
The early way while I remain.
" Praise God ! " sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell.
But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, " Praise God!"
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;"
I doubt not thou art heard my son :
" As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
" This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter's dome."
Said Theocrite, " Would God that I
Might praise him that great way, and die!"
Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."
Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth.
Spread his wings and sank to earth;
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell.
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;
And morning, evening, noon and night.
Praised God in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling's hue:
The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:
And ever o'er the trade he bent.
And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)
God said, " A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:
"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.
"Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss my little human praise."
Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by
The greater outer gallery,
With his holy vestments, dight.
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:
And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,
Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned.
And on his sight the angel burned.
"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
I set thee here; I did not well.
"Vainly I left my angel-sphere.
Vain was thy dream of many a year.
" Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped,
Creation's chorus stopped!
" Go back and praise again
The early way while I remain.
" With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation's pausing strain.
Back to the cell and poor employ:
Resume the craftsman and the boy!"
Theocrite grew old at home;
Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.
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