There in the midst of the wandering pipes, Far from the gleaming keys,

And the organ front with its gilded stripes, My glorious angel lies sleeping at ease. And the hand of a stranger may beat at his gate,

And the ear of a stranger may listen and wait, But he only cries in his pain for these,

Witless to please.

Angel, my angel, the old man's hand.
Knoweth thy silver way.

I loose thy lips from their silence band

And over thy heart-strings my fingers play, While the song peals forth from thy mellow throat,

And my spirit climbs on the climbing note, Till I mingle thy tone with the tones away Over the day.

So I look up as I follow the tone,
Up with my dim old eyes,

And I wonder if organs have angels alone,
Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise,
Each man in his heart folds an angel with
wings,

An angel that slumbers, but wakens and sings

A Spring Concert'

Fem painting by J. L. Hamon