Anne Porter

There was a church in Umbria, Little Portion, Already old eight hundred years ago. It was abandoned and in disrepair But it was called St. Mary of the Angels For it was known to be the haunt of angels, Often at night the country people Could hear them singing there. What was it like, to listen to the angels, To hear those mountain-fresh, those simple voices Poured out on the bare stones of Little Portion In hymns of joy? No one has told us. Perhaps it needs another language That we have still to learn, An altogether different language.