LXXVIII.
Where’er the angel Michael turns his wing,
The clouds are scattered and the sky turns bright;
About his person forms a golden ring,
As we see summer-lightning gleam at night.
This while the courier of the heavenly king
Thinks, on his way, where he may best alight,
With the intent to find that foe to speech,
To whom he first his high behest would teach.
LXXIX.
Upon the thought the posting angel brooded,
Where he, for whom he sought was used to dwell;
Who after thinking much, at last concluded
Him he should find in church or convent-cell;
Where social speech is in such mode excluded,
That Silence, where the cloistered brethren swell
Their anthems, where they sleep, and where they sit
At meat; and everywhere in fine is writ.
LXXX.
Weening that he shall find him here, he plies
With greater speed his plumes of gilded scale,
And deems as well that Peace, here guested, lies,
And Charity and Quiet, without fail.
But finds he is deceived in his surmise,
As soon as he has past the cloister’s pale.
Here Silence is not; nor (’tis said) is found
Longer, except in writing, on this ground.
