I have no angels left
Now, Sweet, to pray to:
Where you have made your shrine
They are away to.
They have struck Heaven’s tent,
And gone to cover you:
Whereso you keep your state
Heaven is pitched over you!
_Seraphim_,
_Her to hymn_,
_Might leave their portals_;
_And at my feet learn_
_The harping of mortals_!