A Phantasy of Heaven

Perhaps he plays with cherubs now.

Those little, golden boys of God.

Bending, with them, some silver bough,

The while a seraph, head a-nod,

Slumbers on guard: how they will run

And shout, if he should wake too soon. -

As fruit more golden than the sun

And riper than the full-grown moon,

Conglobed in clusters, weighs them down,

Like Atlas heaped with starry signs.

And, if they're tripped, heel over crown,

By hidden coils of mighty vines. -

Perhaps the seraph, swift to pounce,

Will hale them, vexed, to God and He

Will only laugh, remembering, once

He was a boy in Galilee!