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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Grace
Graces
Beauty
Asleep
Whether
Hung
Waking
Peculiar
Forth
Shot
Shots
Beheld

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The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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Be lowly wise: Think only what concerns thee and thy being.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Our reason is our law.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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A boundless continent, Dark, waste, and wild, under the frown of night Starless expos'd.
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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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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Earth felt the wound and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
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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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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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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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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
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