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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wind
Flowers
Stars
Breath
Fall
Breaths
Death
Leaves
Wither
Time
Seasons
Impermanence
Thou
Hast
Flower
Thine
Dying
North

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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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He who reigns within himself and rules passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.
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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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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Earth felt the wound and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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