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The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Grove
Plato
Retirement
Academe
Thick
Trill
Notes
Attic
Bird
Attics
Summer
Olive
Long
Olives

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So he with difficulty and labour hard Mov'd on, with difficulty and labour he.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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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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There is no Christian duty that is not to be seasoned and set off with cheerishness, which in a thousand outward and intermitting crosses may yet be done well, as in this vale of tears.
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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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In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.
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Fear of change perplexes monarchs.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.
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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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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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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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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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Time is the subtle thief of youth.
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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