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Where no hope is left, is left no fear.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Left
Failure
Hope
Fear
Inspirational

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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view.
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The starry cope Of heaven.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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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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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?
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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Our two first parents, yet the only two Of mankind, in the happy garden placed, Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love, Uninterrupted joy, unrivalled love In blissful solitude.
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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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Then might ye see Cowls, hoods, and habits with their wearers tost And flutter'd into rags then reliques, beads, Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, The sport of winds all these upwhirl'd aloft Fly to the rearward of the world far off Into a limbo large and broad, since called The paradise of fools.
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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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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.
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