The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus
On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels
Even then were coming—even then
Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced
Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,
Flying toward the ship all ten would take—
The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids
Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed
And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods
Gazed at each other, wonderful again.