From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.John Milton
Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear Touch'd lightly for no falsehood can endure Touch of celestial temper.
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Hence loathd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born.
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Hail holy light offspring of heav'n first-born.
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His red right hand.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd, wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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