The death of Satan was a tragedy
For the imagination. A capital
Negation destroyed him in his tenement
… … … … … … … … … … 
It had nothing of the Julian thunder-cloud:
The assassin flash and rumble … He was denied.
Phantoms, what have you left? What underground?
What place in which to be is not enough
To be? You go, poor phantoms, without place
Like silver in the sheathing of the sight,
As the eye closes … How cold the vacancy
When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist
First sees reality …

— Wallace Stevens