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What is dark within me, illumine.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Illumine
Within
Dark

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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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God sure esteems the growth and completing of one virtuous person, more that the restraint of ten vicious.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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