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Best Famous Angel Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Angel poems. This is a select list of the best famous Angel poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Angel poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of angel poems.

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by John Greenleaf Whittier |


So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
     Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone

Revile him not—the Tempter hath
     A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
     Befit his fall!

Oh! dumb be passion's stormy rage,
     When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
     Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
     A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
     From hope and heaven!

Let not the land, once proud of him,
     Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
     Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,
     From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
     In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, nought
     Save power remains—
A fallen angel's pride of thought,
     Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
     The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
     The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
     To his dead fame;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
     And hide the shame!

by Christina Rossetti |

In an Artists Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
     One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
     We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
     A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
     A saint, an angel—every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
     And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
     Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
No as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
     Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

by Edgar Allan Poe |

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 't is a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng bewinged bedight

In veils and drowned in tears 
Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.
Mimes in the form of God on high 

Mutter and mumble low 
And hither and thither fly -

Mere puppets they who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro 
Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!
That motley drama! - oh be sure

It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore 

By a crowd that seize it not 
Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot 
And much of Madness and more of Sin

And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!
It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food 
And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.
Out - out are the lights - out all!

And over each quivering form 
The curtain a funeral pall 

Comes down with the rush of a storm 
And the angels all pallid and wan 

Uprising unveiling affirm
That the play is the tragedy "Man" 

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

by Anna Akhmatova |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black. 
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger:
"It's not very late, you have time to look back
At these rose turrets of your native Sodom,
The square where you sang, and the yard where you span,
The windows looking from your cozy home
Where you bore children for your dear man."
She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound 
By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all:
Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground,
Her body turned into a pillar of salt.

Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members?
Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us?
But deep in my  heart I will always remember
One who gave her life up for one single glance. 

by William Blake |

To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks who lookest down 
Through the clear windows of the morning turn 
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle  
Which in full choir hails thy approach O Spring! 

The hills tell one another and the listening 5 
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd 
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth 
And let thy holy feet visit our clime! 

Come o'er the eastern hills and let our winds 
Kiss thy perfum¨¨d garments; let us taste 10 
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls 
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour 
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put 
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head 15 
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. 

by John Donne |

The Dream

DEAR love for nothing less than thee 
Would I have broke this happy dream; 
It was a theme 
For reason much too strong for fantasy. 
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet 5 
My dream thou brok'st not but continued'st it. 
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice 
To make dreams truths and fables histories; 
Enter these arms for since thou thought'st it best 
Not to dream all my dream let 's act the rest. 10 

As lightning or a taper's light  
Thine eyes and not thy noise waked me; 
Yet I thought thee¡ª 
For thou lov'st truth¡ªan angel at first sight; 
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart 15 
And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art  
When thou knew'st what I dreamt when thou knew'st when 
Excess of joy would wake me and cam'st then  
I must confess it could not choose but be 
Profane to think thee anything but thee. 20 

Coming and staying show'd thee thee  
But rising makes me doubt that now 
Thou art not thou. 
That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he; 
'Tis not all spirit pure and brave 25 
If mixture it of Fear Shame Honour have. 
Perchance as torches which must ready be  
Men light and put out so thou deal'st with me. 
Thou cam'st to kindle go'st to come: then I 
Will dream that hope again but else would die. 30 

by Anna Akhmatova |


This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned...?"
And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry..."


Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance...
Only there, where Mother stood alone,
None has dared cast a single glance.

by Edgar Allan Poe |


In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
Ceasing their hymns attend the spell
Of his voice all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon 
The enamored moon
Blushes with love 
While to listen the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads even 
Which were seven )
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod 
Where deep thoughts are a duty-
Where Love's a grown-up God-
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong 
Israfeli who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong 
Best bard because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit-
Thy grief thy joy thy hate thy love 
With the fervor of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely- flowers 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt and he where I 
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody 
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.

by Allen Ginsberg |

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother 
takes him strolling 
by railroad and by river 
-he's the son of the absconded 
hot rod angel- 
and he imagines cars 
and rides them in his dreams, 

so lonely growing up among 
the imaginary automobiles 
and dead souls of Tarrytown 

to create 
out of his own imagination 
the beauty of his wild 
forebears-a mythology 
he cannot inherit. 

Will he later hallucinate 
his gods? Waking 
among mysteries with 
an insane gleam 
of recollection? 

The recognition- 
something so rare 
in his soul, 
met only in dreams 
of another life. 

A question of the soul. 
And the injured 
losing their injury 
in their innocence 
-a cock, a cross, 
an excellence of love. 

And the father grieves 
in flophouse 
complexities of memory 
a thousand miles 
away, unknowing 
of the unexpected 
youthful stranger 
bumming toward his door. 

- New York, April 13, 1952

by William Blake |

The Little Black Boy

MY mother bore me in the southern wild, 
And I am black, but O, my soul is white! 
White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree, 5 
And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap and kiss¨¨d me, 
And, pointing to the East, began to say: 

'Look at the rising sun: there God does live, 
And gives His light, and gives His heat away, 10 
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

'And we are put on earth a little space, 
That we may learn to bear the beams of love; 
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face 15 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, 
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice, 
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' 20 

Thus did my mother say, and kiss¨¨d me, 
And thus I say to little English boy. 
When I from black and he from white cloud free, 
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, 

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear 25 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; 
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, 
And be like him, and he will then love me.