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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.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Free
Reaper
Death
Impermanence
Past
Sunset
Come
Lies
Done
Dying
Work
Tree
Gone
Lying
Woodman

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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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Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heav'n.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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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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Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skillfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.
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Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
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Heav'nly love shall outdoo Hellish hate
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And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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Nor love thy life, nor hate but what thou livest, Live well how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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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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