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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Robes
Soar
Fancy
Singing
Poet
Garland
High
Fancies
Reason
Soaring
Garlands

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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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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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Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook.
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Impostor do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance she, good cateress, Means her provision only to the good, That live according to her sober laws, And holy dictate of spare temperance.
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Necessity and chance Approach not me, and what I will is fate.
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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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Knowledge forbidden? Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know, Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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The end then of learning is to repair the ruins of our first parents by regaining to know God aright, and out of that knowledge to love him, to imitate him, to be like him, as we may the nearest by possessing our souls of true virtue, which being united to the heavenly grace of faith makes up the highest perfection.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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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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What if Earth be but the shadow of Heaven and things therein - each other like, more than on Earth is thought?
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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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