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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heav
Starry
Gems
Jewelry
Train

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That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .
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This horror will grow mild, this darkness light Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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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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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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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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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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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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Deep vers'd in books, and shallow in himself.
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