The Flower-Angels

Of old, with goodwill from the skies--         God's message to them given--         The angels came, a glad surprise,         And went again to heaven.         But now the angels are grown rare,         Needed no more as then;         Far lowlier messengers can bear         God's goodwill unto men.         Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn         Breaks from the earth below;         Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,         The noontide roses glow.         The snowdrops first--the dawning gray;         Then out the roses burn!         They speak their word, grow dim--away         To holy dust return.         Of oracles were little dearth,         Should heaven continue dumb;         From lowliest corners of the earth         God's messages will come.         In thy face his we see, O Lord,         And are no longer blind;         Need not so much his rarer word,         In flowers even read his mind.