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Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

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And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

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HAVE you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told

Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it,—the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered

Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder

By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,

With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless

Sandalphon stands listening breathless

To sounds that ascend from below:

From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore

In the fervor and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses

Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands,

Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal

Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,-
A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing

Sandalphon the angel, expanding

His pinions in nebulous bars.

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