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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Find
Native
Children
Rings
Would
Delight
Private
Pebbles
Soon
Solace
Hours
Ring
Language
Shore
Music
Poem

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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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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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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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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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We read not that Christ ever exercised force but once and that was to drive profane ones out of his Temple, not to force them in.
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Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportion'd strength.
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Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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A short retirement urges a sweet return.
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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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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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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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For truth is strong next to the Almighty. She needs no policies or stratagems or licensings to make her victorious. These are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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