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With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Love
Hue
Rosy
Glow
Celestial
Proper
Red
Smile

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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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Nor jealousy Was understood, the injur'd lover's hell.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them.
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But all was false and hollow though his tongue Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, 4 to perplex and dash Maturest counsels.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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If we think we regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners, we must regulate all regulations and pastimes, all that is delightful to man.
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Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
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The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day. Be famous then By wisdom as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world.
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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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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Reason also is choice.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed.
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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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Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
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