From Somebody's Psalmody

Our waters into wine, O Turn! Our dailyness so break upon that through this tissued myth, this term of piecemeal time such intimations may be caught of vast beyondness to our state that even here -- at dusk, in rain queu'd under a usual bus-stop sign -- suddenly appears, no scheduled thing crammed with commuting pigmy men but -- O ablaze in mists, as if despatched from some celestial source our Chariot of Fire! And there -- traced, without break, through every ruse of intervening time and space -- our fixed, and undeceiving, course.