The hours are viewless angels,
That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up
To him who sits on high;
And we who walk among them,
As one by one departs,
See not that they are hovering
Forever round our hearts.
Like summer bees that hover
Around the idle flowers,
They gather every act and thought,
Those viewless angel-hours;
The poison or the nectar
The heart's deep flower cups yield,
A sample still they gather swift,
And leave us in the field.
And some flit by on pinions
Of joyous gold and blue,
And some flag on with drooping wing
Of sorrow's darker hue;
But still they steal the record
And bear it far away;
Their mission-flight, by day and night,
No magic power can stay.
And as we spend each minute
That God to us has given,
The deeds are known before his throne,
The tale is told in heaven.
Those bee-like hours we see not,
Nor hear their noiseless wings;
We often feel--too oft--when flown
That they have left their stings.
So teach me, heavenly Father,
To meet each flying hour,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison flower!
So, when death brings its shadows,
The hours that linger last
Shall bear my hopes on angels' wings,
Unfettered by the past.
--Christopher Pearse Cranch.