It chanced on one of Heaven’s long-lighted days,
     The Four and all the Host having gone their ways
     Each to his Charge, the shining Courts were void
     Save for one Seraph whom no charge employed,
     With folden wings and slumber-threatened brow. 
     To whom The Word:  ‘Beloved, what dost thou?’
     ‘By the Permission,’ came the answer soft,
     ’Little I do nor do that little oft. 
     As is The Will in Heaven so on Earth
     Where by The Will I strive to make men mirth.’ 
     He ceased and sped, hearing The Word once more: 
     ‘Beloved, go thy way and greet the Four.’

     Systems and Universes overpast,
     The Seraph came upon the Four, at last,
     Guiding and guarding with devoted mind
     The tedious generations of mankind
     Who lent at most unwilling ear and eye
     When they could not escape the ministry.... 
     Yet, patient, faithful, firm, persistent, just
     Toward all that gross, indifferent, facile dust,
     The Archangels laboured to discharge their trust
     By precept and example, prayer and law,
     Advice, reproof, and rule, but, labouring, saw
     Each in his fellow’s countenance confessed,
     The Doubt that sickens:  ‘Have I done my best?’

Even as they sighed and turned to toil anew, The Seraph hailed them with observance due; And after some fit talk of higher things Touched tentative on mundane happenings.  This they permitting, he, emboldened thus, Prolused of humankind promiscuous.  And, since the large contention less avails Than instances observed, he told them tales—­Tales of the shop, the bed, the court, the street, Intimate, elemental, indiscreet:  Occasions where Confusion smiting swift Piles jest on jest as snow-slides pile the drift.

     Whence, one by one, beneath derisive skies,
     The victims bare, bewildered heads arise: 
     Tales of the passing of the spirit, graced
     With humour blinding as the doom it faced: 
     Stark tales of ribaldry that broke aside
     To tears, by laughter swallowed ere they dried: 
     Tales to which neither grace nor gain accrue,
     But only (Allah be exalted!) true,
     And only, as the Seraph showed that night,
     Delighting to the limits of delight.

     These he rehearsed with artful pause and halt,
     And such pretence of memory at fault,
     That soon the Four—­so well the bait was thrown—­
     Came to his aid with memories of their own—­
     Matters dismissed long since as small or vain,
     Whereof the high significance had lain
     Hid, till the ungirt glosses made it plain. 
     Then as enlightenment came broad and fast,
     Each marvelled at his own oblivious past
     Until—­the Gates of Laughter opened wide—­
     The Four, with that bland Seraph at their side,
     While they recalled, compared, and amplified,
     In utter mirth forgot both zeal and pride.