In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute”;
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty,
Where Love’s a grown-up God,
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervour of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
*The angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. —KORAN
[Painting: "The Angel Israfil" from al-Qazwini's Aja'ib al-Makhluqat]