The Great Creator From His

Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground, I Hear The Far-off Curfew Sound Over Some Wide-watered Shore, Swinging Low With Sullen Roar.

Virtue May Be Assailed, But Never Hurt, Surprised By Unjust Force, But Not Enthralled.

... Then There Was War In Heaven. But It Was Not Angels. It Was That Small Golden Zeppelin, Like A Long Oval World, High Up. It Seemed As If The Cosmic Order Were Gone, As If There Had Come A New Order, A New Heavens Above Us: And As If The World In Anger Were Trying To Revoke It.

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.

Lifted Up So High I Disdained Subjection, And Thought One Step Higher Would Set Me Highest.