Part 9

"Pull out that feather!" the angel said, "The one half black and the other half red."

The cripple cried, "Before you're through You may get fagged, and if you do,--"

The angel superciliously-- "My transformed friend, don't think of me.

I shall be happy day and night, In doing what I think is right."

"So so," the feathered beggar said, "Good-bye, I am just overhead."

* * * * *

The angel when he grasped the dish, Began to criticize his wish.

The seat was hard as granite rocks, His real legs were in the box.

His knees were cramped, his shins were sore, The lying pegs stuck out before.

In vain he clinked the dish and whined. The passers-by seemed deaf and blind.

As pious looking as Saint Denis, An urchin stole his catch-penny.

And even the beggar's drab-fleeced poodle Began to know him for a noodle.

"It has an uncelestial scent, The clothing of this mendicant;"

He cried, "That trickling down my spine Is anything but hyaline.

This day is like a thousand years: I'd give an age of sighs and tears

To see with his confectioned grin One cherub sitting on his chin.

That cripple was by far too sly-- I wish he'd tumble from the sky,

That things might be as they were before; I really cannot stand much more!"

* * * * *

The beggar in the angel's guise, Rose far above the smoky skies.

But being a beggar, never saw The charm of the compelling law

That turned the swinging universe: 'Twas gloomy as an empty purse.

Often with heaven in his head, He blundered on a planet dead.

And when with an immortal fuss, He singed his wings at Sirius.

He plucked the feather with his teeth, The charm was potent and beneath,

He saw the turmoil of the way Grown wilder at the close of day,

With the sad poodle, can in hand, The angel still at the old stand.

"My friend," said the angel, hemming and humming, "Truly I thought you were never coming."