Quote

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
Language
Shore
Music
Poem
Find
Native
Children
Rings
Would
Delight
Private
Pebbles
Soon
Solace
Hours
Ring

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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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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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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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With eyes Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd. Imparadised in one another's arms. With thee conversing I forget all time. And feel that I am happier than I know.
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The virtuous mind that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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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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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
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Angels contented with their face in heaven, Seek not the praise of men.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.
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