And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
Evil on itself shall back recoil.
Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
... 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.