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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Right
Arguing
Heart
Bear
Bears
Hand
Heav
Hope
Onward
Hands
Steer
Stills
Steers
Still
Argue

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In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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But God himself is truth in propagating which, as men display a greater integrity and zeal, they approach nearer to the similitude of God, and possess a greater portion of his love.
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The planets in their station list'ning stood.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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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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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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