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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?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Like
Therein
Shadow
Heaven
Thought
Earth
Things

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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.
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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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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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United thoughts and counsels, equal hope And hazard in the glorious enterprise.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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The conquer'd, also, and enslaved by war, Shall, with their freedom lost, all virtue lose.
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But hail thou Goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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A limbo large and broad, since call'd The Paradise of Fools to few unknown.
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Temper justice with mercy.
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They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.
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Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne.
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Which way I fly is Hell myself am Hell.
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Let no man seek Henceforth to be foretold that shall befall Him or his children.
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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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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
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Evil, be thou my good.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
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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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