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Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Homeward
Ruth
Melt
Angel
Look
Looks

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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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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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Where all life dies death lives.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he awhile Thought him still speaking, still stood fix'd to hear.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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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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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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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.
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