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The never-ending flight Of future days.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Ending
Flight
Days
Future
Never

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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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Danger will wink on opportunity.
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And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.
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Beauty is nature's brag, and must be shown in courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, where most may wonder at the workmanship.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
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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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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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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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Each tree Laden with fairest fruit, that hung to th' eye Tempting, stirr'd in me sudden appetite To pluck and eat.
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Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, Covering the earth with odours, fruits, flocks, Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, But all to please and sate the curious taste?
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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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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For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.
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