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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Endure
Dear
Live
Without
Love
Life
Deaths
Boyfriend

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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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God shall be all in all.
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Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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The end of all learning is to know God, and out of that knowledge to love and imitate Him.
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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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The teachers of our law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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