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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hell
Heaven
Inspirational
Mind
Make

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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh to lose thee were to lose myself.
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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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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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Unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing.
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
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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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Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
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Who aspires must down as low As high he soar'd.
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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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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 not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live.
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