Angels Unawares

They come to us in sim­ple guise

In com­mon garb. In sooth

They are not love­ly in our eyes

Though fair in love and truth.

We greet them cold­ly; af­ter years

We call them An­gels Una­wares.

There is no ha­lo round their brow

As pic­tured saint may bear;

Nay

ra­ther

sor­row marks them now

With stain of grief or tear.

And smil­ing sa­tire scarce­ly spares

These mourn­ful An­gels Una­wares.

They have no elo­quence of speech

For us

with flu­ent flow;

And yet their love­ly lives might reach

The heights which an­gels know.

We scarce­ly note the beau­ty theirs

Till lost—these An­gels Una­wares.

Or some we scorn! How strange it is

That looks should vex us thus!

That we should spurn

be­cause we miss

Some man­ner dear to us!

When Me­mo­ry sings her ten­der airs

She calls them An­gels Una­wares.

We deem ’twere ea­si­er far of old

Some san­daled saint to greet

On tent­ed plain

when skies were gold

And ori­ent airs were sweet.

Saints meet us now ’mid throng­ing cares

Pass on—are An­gels Una­wares.

Sweet songs they sing

brave words they say

Unheeded though they be

Until

the sing­er caught away

We learn their mys­te­ry:

Then

sing­ing up the gold­en stairs

They beck­on—An­gels Una­wares.

O would we pause

with Christ-like grace

To aid our fel­low-men

Be not too bu­sy in life’s race

To love as breth­ren:

Across life’s waste would blow soft airs

While ang­els walk

not Una­wares.