The instant of inspiration seemed now to be reflected from all sides at once from a multitude of cloudy circumstance of what had happened or of what might have happened. The instant flashed forth like a point of light and now from cloud on cloud of vague circumstance confused form was veiling softly its afterglow. O! In the virgin womb of the imagination the word was made flesh. Gabriel the seraph had come to the virgin’s chamber. An afterglow deepened within his spirit, whence the white flame had passed, deepening to a rose and ardent light. That rose and ardent light was her strange wilful heart, strange that no man had known or would ever now, wilful from the before the beginning of the world: and lured by that ardent roselike glow the choirs of the seraphim were falling from heaven.
Are you not weary of ardent ways
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.
James Joyce; Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man