It starts in the distant heavens—a quiet moan.
Hyperion sets loose his relentless grip.
For just a moment. And all the sky is still~
Released from light. Gently shaded with
the divine pencil.
And then a Seraph sheds a single tear;
From high it falls with sweet and speedy grace,
The life-giving water from above.
And now a Cherub, seeing her woeful face,
Feels the common grief perfection bears
in perfect sorrow.
As he and she begin to weep in union,
Still others, by the sorry spirit beckoned,
Make it their purpose to attend the feast of grief.
Anon the entire etherial host in recollection
Laments. A sublime and incredible common sigh
They raise, in a doleful and a dolce and overpowering
So beautiful a sound would overwhelm
The mortal ear, had it but mind to listen.
Instead, below are men busy in their realm,
Just barely noticing the glorious rain,
and how it falls.
A lonely man walks with soundless steps
Through the tumultuous storm.
Around him all the earth laments in tune
With a solitary woeful harmony—
With slow and steady strides and lowered head,
Covered in the nasty, sweaty rain.
His water waited cloths stick to his chest,
And his long worn boots are painted with thick mud
by the earthly brush.
Above the angels see below and yet weep,
Their deathless tears, falling to the earth
Spread over every living thing,
and bring it life.
And then his downcast eyes he raises,
That man below, and looking up he thinks
A faint, flickering sound he scarcely hears—
Dependently he lives off heaven’s tears.