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Where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes, That comes to all.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Doleful
Dwell
Rest
Peace
Hope
Comes
Never

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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!
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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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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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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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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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Nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study household good, And good works in her husband to promote.
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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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