WE see them not—we cannot hear   The music of their wing— Yet know we that they sojourn near,   The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground   When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound   The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast,   From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest   Is meet, my love, for thee!