“At twilight an angel was standing in the garden. It is true, the wings are very beautiful. Even more spectacular, in a quieter way, is the light that shines out of the angel’s body. Not the cold light of the glow worm, but the softer light of a candle, or more exactly the light of a candle as it is seen through a window and, therefore, it not only itself but the light and a kind of veil together, which in fact does not double the mystery but multiplies it… Which is just one more mystery and, finally, the one I think about most. What, then, is their earnest business? What do the flames mean that spark from under their feet? Was I wrong, did the angel in the dark offer tenderness, and did I miss it? And what was the other angel doing in the garden, standing there straight-limbed and substantial, as though the trees were singing to him, or was he singing to the leaves, or all them were stitching a music together for something or someone, and no time no precious time to think of anything else.’

- Mary Oliver