“Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing, Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan Winnows the buxom air. * * * * * * * * At once on th’ eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A seraph wing’d. * * * * Like Maia’s son he stood, And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill’d The circuit wide.”