VII THE VILLAGE CHERUB
Reading edition
Up at the church at the edge of the moor, Flat on the pathway that leads to the door, Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor, There is a face that is fit for God’s floor.
How could a mason create in his brain Just such a cherub to sob in the rain? How could the pride of the dying but vain Want such a cherub to blow a refrain?
This one had ankles with which he could run— Is it a fact that a cherub has none? This one had love-locks that flashed in the sun, Yes, and his lips often pouted in fun.
Who was the angel that played on the street; Whose was the face I can’t soil with my feet? Nobody knows; but I hope I shall meet One such a cherub in front of God’s seat.