If Michael， leader of God‘s host

    When Heaven and Hell are met，

    Looked down on you from Heaven‘s door-post

    He would his deeds forget.

    Brooding no more upon God‘s wars

    In his divine homestead，

    He would go weave out of the stars

    A chaplet for your head.

    And all folk seeing him bow down，

    And white stars tell your praise，

    Would come at last to God‘s great town，

    Led on by gentle ways；

    And God would bid His warfare¹ cease，

    Saying all things were well；

    And softly make a rosy² peace，

    A peace of Heaven with Hell.

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