Some people say
There is in everyone an Angel embryo,
That knows not what it may become.
The body’s double coil,
Our time, our life, our fate
Is but a chrysalis, in which the Angel-pupa grows.
And then in Angel-birth, we die.
But ghostly traces of the larval stage remain;
The faces of newborn angels
A faint reflection of their origin.
But hear my warning:
Between metaphor or myth,
and simple truth,
I cannot make distinctions,
or none, at least,
That also make a difference.