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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Love
Mysterious
Marriage
Source
Wedded
Law
Matrimony
Happiness
Propriety
True
Anniversary
Human
Hail
Humans
Wedding

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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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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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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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Prudence is the virtue by which we discern what is proper to do under various circumstances in time and place.
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My sentence is for open war.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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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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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things new.
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Th'invention all admir'd, and each, how he to be th'inventor miss'd so easy it seem'd once found, which yet unfound most would have thought impossible.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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