Divided

If an angel that I know
Should now enter, sliding low
Down the shaft of quiet moonlight that rests upon the floor;
And if she should stir and stand
With a lily in her hand,
And that smile of treasured stillness that she wore,


Should I, falling at her feet,
Brush or kiss her garments sweet?
Would their lowest least white hem upon me unworthy, fall?
Or would she guarded, stand,
Drop the lily in my hand,
And go whispering as she vanished, "This is all"?