My task it is to stand beneath the throne

My task it is to stand beneath the throne,
To stand and wait, while those grave presences,
Prophet and priest and saint and seraph, zone
Our Lady with the Child upon her knees:
They from mild lips receive the messages
Of peace and love, which thence to men below
They shower soft-falling like pure flakes of snow.

I meanwhile wait; and very mute must be
My music, lest I break the golden trance
Of bliss celestial, or with childish glee
Trouble the fount of divine utterance.
Yet when those lips are tired of speech, perchance
It may be that the royal babe will lie
And slumber to my whispered lullaby:

Then all those mighty brows will rest, and peace
Descend like dew on that high company.
Therefore I stand and wait, but do not cease
To clasp my lute, that silver melody,
When our dear Lady bends her smile on me,
Forth from my throat and from these thrilling strings
Dove-like may soar and spread ethereal wings.