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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Religious
Religion
Light
Storied
Studious
Richly
Windows
Casting
Window

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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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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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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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Hate is of all things the mightiest divider, nay, is division itself. To couple hatred, therefore, though wedlock try all her golden links, and borrow to tier aid all the iron manacles and fetters of law, it does but seek to twist a rope of sand.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.
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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest They also serve who only stand and wait.
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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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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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Death ready stands to interpose his dart.
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Solitude sometimes is best society.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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