MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL
Not woman-faced and sweet, as look
The angels in the picture-book;
But terrible in majesty,
More than an army passing by.
The angels in the picture-book;
But terrible in majesty,
More than an army passing by.
His hair floats not upon the wind
Like theirs, but curled and closely twined;
Wrought with his aureole, so that none
Shall know the gold curls from the crown.
Like theirs, but curled and closely twined;
Wrought with his aureole, so that none
Shall know the gold curls from the crown.
His wings he hath put away in steel,
He goes mail-clad from head to heel;
Never moon-silver hath outshone
His breast-plate and his morion.
He goes mail-clad from head to heel;
Never moon-silver hath outshone
His breast-plate and his morion.
His brows are like a battlement,
Beautiful, brave, and innocent;
His eyes with fires of battle burn—
On his strong mouth the smile is stern.
Beautiful, brave, and innocent;
His eyes with fires of battle burn—
On his strong mouth the smile is stern.
His horse, the horse of Heaven, goes forth,
Bearing him to the South and North,
Neighing far off, as one that sees
The battle over distances.
Bearing him to the South and North,
Neighing far off, as one that sees
The battle over distances.
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