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Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heaven
Engines
Crew
Sent
Availed
Architecture
Scrape
Build
Headlong
Built
Aught
Hell
Industrious
High
Towers

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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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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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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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Reason also is choice.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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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!
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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God shall be all in all.
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All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.
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Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple who ever knew Truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter.
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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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