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 warfare cease,
saying all things were well;
and softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of heaven with Hell.