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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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Happy
Christmas
Morn
Born
King
Maid
Mother
Son
Wherein
Great
Kings
Maids
Eternal
Virgin
Months
Virgins
Bring
Redemption
Heaven
Month
Wedded

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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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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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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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There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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What reinforcement we may gain from hope If not, what resolution from despair.
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd.
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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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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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