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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.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Wide
Curfew
Ground
Watered
Hear
Sullen
Sound
Swinging
Roar
Shore
Rising
Lows
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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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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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Our torments also may in length of time Become our Elements.
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Thy actions to thy words accord thy words To thy large heart give utterance due thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.
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... then there was war in heaven. But it was not angels. It was that small golden zeppelin, like a long oval world, high up. It seemed as if the cosmic order were gone, as if there had come a new order, a new heavens above us: and as if the world in anger were trying to revoke it.
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Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
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Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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Dim eclipse, disastrous twilight.
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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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On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
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Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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My latest found, Heaven's last, best gift, my ever new delight!
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Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n.
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