Page:Andreyev - The Little Angel (Knopf, 1916).djvu/219

Rh Hither! my risen Talent—why stand gazing at the fleeting clouds. Hither! my little sportive Hopes.

Stop!

I hear music. Don't shout so, cherub. Whence these wondrous sounds? Gentle, melodious, madly joyful, and sad, they speak of life eternal——

Nay, be ye not afraid. This will soon pass away. I weep, indeed, for joy!

Ah! how glorious is life for the risen!