Holy shyat. This is a strange piece of poetry. It took me some time to read it. In the middle time I've met Hart Crane, and never had I seen more intricate, mistically orchestrated imagery as in his poetry. Crane surpasses Whitman, Pound, Yeats and Frost in numerous ways, and the weighting divinity of his imagery is one of them. But Milton, well, Milton surpasses Crane. And this is probably because Crane could never so propitiously investigated the spiritual aspect of image's unity in poetry. It seems to me Paradise Lost is at the same time that unity and the commentary about it. Altough there is a phenomenological difference between Milton and Crane, wich is a pragmatic also; in Milton the visual/symbolic particles are distributed along its phrase, independent of syntax, wich generally converges to the end of the final descriptive verse, and in this moment the reader "acknowlodge" the scenery; in Crane, while reaching the end of the descriptive verse, the syntax of particles converges towards de centre of the verse as the unitary force. While Crane confounds you, Milton reaches meaning with enchantment.