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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wayside
Handwriting
Sacrament
Sacraments
Beauty
Opportunity

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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child!
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven firstborn! Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
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Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
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Satan so call him now, his former name Is heard no more in heaven.
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Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand in the sight of God enthroned, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. On other surety none: freely we serve, because we freely love.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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To overcome in battle, and subdue Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite Man-slaughter, shall be held the highest pitch Of human glory.
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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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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
John Milton