A Ballade of Sandalphon by Ethel Turner

There are volumes of old-world tales
   That the dust of time endears,  
And, withal, are so fresh, oft the soul inhales,
   Warm breaths of long-buried seers.
In one -- in the Talmud -- there appears
   A story, mystically sweet,
Of an angel who ever the wild prayers hears  
   Of the restless world at his feet.

The ladder of light, that no foot e'er scales,
   Is the means by which to his ears
Comes the tale of grief that mankind assails,
   The hope each breast inspheres.
Silent, he stands where the ladder rears
   Its head in the golden street;
Its lowest rung the darkness nears
   Of the restless world at his feet.

And he gathers them up-the songs, the wails,
   The passionate bursts of tears,
And they change in his hand to purple trails,
   Of blossoms, whose glory cheers,
Or to white, as we place upon biers.  
   But only their fragrance e'er reaches God's seat;
'Tis the angel who hears the woes of the years,
   Of the restless world at his feet.

L'Envoi.

Sandalphon! The mist slowly clears,
   No longer our prayers shall you greet:
God of Himself hears the hopes and the fears
   Of the restless world at his feet.    

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 21 June 1905

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.