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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
Studious
Richly
Windows
Casting
Window
Religious
Religion
Light
Storied

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His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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Yet much remains To conquer still peace hath her victories No less renowned then war, new foes arise Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.
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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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Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?
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Hail, wedded love, mysterious law true source of human happiness.
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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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Tis chastity, my brother, chastity She that has that is clad in complete steel, And, like a quiver'd nymph with arrows keen, May trace huge forests, and unharbour'd heaths, Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, Will dare to soil her virgin purity.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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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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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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