it was so long and so long ago
  in a gloaming-lit room where the lamplight lay low,
that i, with the hand of a slumbering saint,
  summoned a spirit from water and paint.

no angel in heaven had garments so fair,
 his robe was of lustre, his crown made of air,
and his wings, they were tremulous shawls of the sea,
 and he looked; yes, he looked; ever rarin’ for me.

i knew not his name, nor the path he would take,
 but i dreamed him in silence, for dreaming’s own sake.
and i left him alone in the hems of the sky,
 where the clouds chimed gray and the years drifted by.

but o!—through the tombs where the sun-blind are led,
 he wandered, he wandered, the palette of dread,
till the Lord, in a hush, let His finger unbind
 the brushstroke from Time, and the thought from my mind.

and he fell like a stain from the hand of a heir;
  as dew falls unseen on the throat of the air.
with the sigh of a page that has turned in the gloom,
 he came to my door as if risen from tomb.

he remembered the lines i had drawn as a child,
 the blush in his cheeks, and the colors run wild;
his voice freed the sinners and demons from Hell,
 as though all the old noels had forgotten to dwell.

he bore not sacral swords from kingdoms above,
 but eyes that had wept through the ink of my love.
and he whispered—o Heaven!—he whispered to me:
 “i searched all the stars, but you painted the sea.”

now each day that i bide in the shade of his grace,
 the world is a shush when i gaze on his face.
for he walks with the mumble of chants that were true,
 the cherub i painted, who came when fate knew.

and though men may scoff, and though suns may implode,
 the colors still bloom where my longing abode.
for love, in its balm, is a sacred decree,
  and he is the seraph God borrowed from me.