Ah, yes. Sandalphon, the Angel of Embryos. The Angel who decides what gender will the unborn shall be given. With his twin brother, Metatron, Sandalphon is the 'tag-mate' of Archangel Michael.

Talk about World Wrestling Entertainment. A Handicap match against the fallen angel himself, Lucifer. I wonder if it will sell...

Oh, well. Here's 'Sandalphon' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Enjoy!

Sandalphon
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air, --
Have you read it, -- the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,
With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below; --

From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervour and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know, --
A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore,
Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

While was skimming on this book entitled "The Raven and other Poems", I found this poem by Edgar Allan Poe. I liked it because of two things: It's about an angel and it creatively describes how the Angel of Song goes around.

After I read the poem, you now may count me in with the Edgar Allan Poe fans out there.

Here's Edgar's poem: Israfel

Israfel
by: Edgar Allan Poe

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfel's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty-
Where Love's a grown-up God-
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfel, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit-
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely- flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.

Last Words of a Dying Man

All of you! Listen to me, for t'is my last words that shall come from my weary heart.

You, my love, never listened to my love song! Though I have sweat, bled and tore my whole soul apart, you never danced to the grace of my song. I have sold everything, even my dignity, just for you to appreciate my efforts.

But what am I repaid? Nothing!

You, my people, why have you forsaken me? You never appreciated how I, a soldier, does things his way? Can't I do the things my brothers do? Why am I nothing to you?

And now that I am dying, you make peace with my weary heart? Never! You never gave me my chance to live a happy life! And you, my love! You never gave back the love I offered at your feet! Never shall I give you a chance to love me, for you are a woman not deserving of love nor care!

Listen closely, infidels! For t'is is my last words! Mark this to your hearts and live a new life.

We, the soldiers of the modern time, have great charateristics. Man thought that we could only kill and be killed. But only idiots believe that gossip! We, soldiers, can care, help and love! Never shall you, pitiful men and women, control how are lives go! For we die for you!

Listen, mankind. Listen to the dead, as he weeps for all of you.

-A Soldier weeping and Dying...

This song gave me the urge to be sad again. Its story is about a person hating someone he/she cared before.

It's Silent Hill 4's Room of Angel....

Akira Yamaoka - Room of Angel

You lie silent there before me
Your tears they mean nothing to me
The wind howling at the window
The love you never gave I give to you
But really don't deserve it
But now there's nothing you can do
So, sleep in your only memory
Of me, my dearest mother

Chorus
Here's a lullaby to close your eyes (goodbye)
It was always you that I dispised
I don't feel enough for you to cry (oh no)
Here's a lullaby to close your eyes
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

So insignificant sleeping dormant deep inside of me
Are you hiding away, lost under the sewers?
Maybe flying high in the clouds?
Perhaps you're happy without me
So many seeds have been sown in the field
And who could sprawl up so blessedly, If I had died
I would have never felt sad at all
You will not hear me say "I'm sorry"
Where is the light? I Wonder if it's weeping somewhere...

chorus x4

Hate Begets Like Begets Love/Reset Cycle

You would think that just because I hate her guts means that she is nothing special for me.

Let me get this straight. I hate this girl. I hate every facet of her person. Physical? Bleh. Personality-wise? Right. Fashion? Hah! Don’t make me laugh.
God can take her now (She’s just too nice) for all I care– because I don’t. Good riddance. Good bye; I don’t hate to see you go away, goes my version of the popular song...

But at first glance there is nothing to hate about her, truth be told.
Looks? She’s okay. Nothing like (Name Censored For Security Purposes) or (NCFSP again), and definitely not even a shadow of (NCFSP yet again, and for good reasons). But she does look pretty in her own way. Like a diamond in the rough.
Personality? But she’s kind when she needs to be and strong when it’s called for. Malleable in a pinch– and admirably so– but never hypocritical. Knowledgeable and intelligent, true, yet never a know-it-all.

And fashion– well, I’ve never seen her in anything but our school’s uniform. Not enough information to go on.

(Okay, there was that one time she came to school in a sweatshirt and biking shorts.)

All in all, there’s nothing wrong with her. Fifteen boys and two girls will attest to that.

So what’s with my hatred of her? Illogical? Unfounded? Am I to be dragged kicking and screaming to Boys’ Town now for stalking a fellow student?

Come to think of it: why do I know these things about here? More so, why do I bother writing? Accusing her of something, then contradicting myself?

An explanation is required, I think. Maybe my thought processes require a thorough follow-through.

I say I hate here. Hate demands attention to be paid at the object of hatred. Attention points at details here and there that compose her being. Details comprise knowledge. Expansion of knowledge leads to understanding. Understanding gives way to approval. Approval upgrades to liking. And the final iteration of liking is–
My train of thought breaks. Reset cycle.

What was that again? Hate begets like begets– love?

What?

Polar opposites attract? Desire can translate itself into enmity? Am I in denial? All my actions to this point have merely been me “playing hard to get”?

Then again, she did dump me when I said I loved her.

Stupid.

(Who? Her? Me?)