| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 128. The Flight |
| | | By Lloyd Mifflin |
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| UPON a cloud among the stars we stood. | |
| The angel raised his hand and looked and said, | |
| “Which world, of all yon starry myriad, | |
| Shall we make wing to?” The still solitude | |
| Became a harp whereon his voice and mood | 5 |
| Made spheral music round his haloed head. | |
| I spake—for then I had not long been dead— | |
| “Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood | |
| A moment on these orbs ere I decide … | |
| What is yon lower star that beauteous shines | 10 |
| And with soft splendour now incarnadines | |
| Our wings?—There would I go and there abide.” | |
| Then he as one who some child’s thought divines: | |
| “That is the world where yesternight you died.” | |
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