Faithless as Saint Thomas, never
Could I in the heaven believe
Which both Jew and Priest endeavour
To compel men to receive.
That the angels, though, are real
I have never held in doubt;
Spotless, and of grace ideal,
On this earth they move about.
Still I doubt if such a being
Wing’d is, it must be confess’d;
I have recently been seeing
Wingless angels, I protest.
With their dear and loving glances
With their loving hands so white
Men they guard, and all advances
Of misfortune put to flight.
Every one can comfort borrow
From their favour and regard;
Most of all that child of sorrow
Whom the people call a bard.