The Boy and The Angel

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. 

" 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.