Perhaps he plays with cherubs now. 
Those little, golden boys of God. 
Bending, with them, some silver bough, 
The while a seraph, head a-nod, 
- 
Slumbers on guard: how they will run 
And shout, if he should wake too soon. - 
As fruit more golden than the sun 
And riper than the full-grown moon, 
Conglobed in clusters, weighs them down, 
Like Atlas heaped with starry signs. 
And, if they're tripped, heel over crown, 
By hidden coils of mighty vines. - 
Perhaps the seraph, swift to pounce, 
Will hale them, vexed, to God and He 
- 
Will only laugh, remembering, once 
He was a boy in Galilee!