ISRAFEL
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute"; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamored moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where* deep thoughts are a duty Where Love s a grown-up God Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.
