Quote

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Song
Greet
Left
Nest
Nests
Ring
Tow
Rings
Herald
Ground
Lark
Approach
Larks
High
Morn

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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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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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Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
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What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
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In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.
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A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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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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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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