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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Fools
Paradise
Unknown
Large
Fool
Limbo
Since
Broads
Call
Broad

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Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
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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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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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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
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Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging low with sullen roar.
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So glistered the dire Snake , and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the Tree Of Prohibition, root of all our woe.
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Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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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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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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Evil into the mind of god or man may come and go, so unapproved, and leave no spot or blame behind.
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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But that from us aught should ascend to Heav'n So prevalent as to concern the mind Of God, high-bless'd, or to incline His will, Hard to belief may seem yet this will prayer.
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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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Zeal and duty are not slow But on occasion's forelock watchful wait.
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How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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