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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Heav
Hail
Offspring
Holy
Light

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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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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote? Paradise Lost
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
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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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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.
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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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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.
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For such kind of borrowing as this, if it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good authors is accounted Plagiarè.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Reason is also choice.
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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
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