Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl,
  Its hair is white, the brightness of white light
  Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are heavens
  Of liquid darkness, which the Deity
  Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured
  From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy lashes,
  Tempering the cold and radiant air around
  With fire that is not brightness; in its hand
  It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point
  A guiding power directs the chariot's prow
  Over its wheelèd clouds, which as they roll
  Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds,
  Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew.

PANTHEA
  And from the other opening in the wood
  Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony,
  A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres;
  Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass
  Flow, as through empty space, music and light;
  Ten thousand orbs involving and involved,
  Purple and azure, white, green and golden,
  Sphere within sphere; and every space between
  Peopled with unimaginable shapes,
  Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep;
  Yet each inter-transpicuous; and they whirl