The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost deep
GIves up her stars, and like a flock of sheep
They pass before his eye, are numbered, and roll on!
The tempest is his steed, he strides the air;
And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare,
Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none.

--Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound