On a Group of Fra Angelico's Angels

What Tuscan sunset, what aerial gold,

Condensed its flakes to make these aureoled shapes,

These bright winged trumpeters that colour drapes

In robes of glow and wonder from of old;

As if they roamed those pale-green depths that hold

The topaz isles and diamond-outlined capes,

When, through the West's great gate, as he escapes,

Light flings his fan, for seraphim to fold?

Or were they born of such bright drifts as now,

Like countless cherub winglets of gold down,

Are crossing Florence at the Angels' hour;

When through the summer air comes deep and slow

Across the olive hill which hides the town,

The boom of a great bell from Giotto's tower?

What Tuscan sunset, what aerial gold,

Condensed its flakes to make these aureoled shapes,

These bright winged trumpeters that colour drapes

In robes of glow and wonder from of old;

As if they roamed those pale-green depths that hold

The topaz isles and diamond-outlined capes,

When, through the West's great gate, as he escapes,

Light flings his fan, for seraphim to fold?

Or were they born of such bright drifts as now,

Like countless cherub winglets of gold down,

Are crossing Florence at the Angels' hour;

When through the summer air comes deep and slow

Across the olive hill which hides the town,

The boom of a great bell from Giotto's tower?