Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven, So ready is Heaven to stoop to him. - Francis Thompson

The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,
Moves all the labouring surges of the world.

Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars:
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.

The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.