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And sing to those that hold the vital shears And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Hold
Wound
Turn
Vital
Turns
Wounds
Men
Round
Rounds
Gods
Spindle
Sing
Adamantine
Fate
Shears

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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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Dark with excessive bright.
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It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit, That woman's love can win, or long inherit But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit.
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There is no truth sure enough to justify persecution.
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Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
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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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Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
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The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
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But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.
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They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.
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The never-ending flight Of future days.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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