I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon. - Francis Thompson

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.

All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.

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.