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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Prey
Bent
Walked
Sea
Land
Alone
Fiend
Windy

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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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Seas wept from our deep sorrows.
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In discourse more sweet For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.
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Freely we serve, Because we freely love, as in our will To love or not in this we stand or fall.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
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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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Hail, holy light! offspring of heaven firstborn! Or of th' eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate!
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Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond / Frightened the reign of Chaos and old Night.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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Luck is the residue of design.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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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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Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.
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Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
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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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Servant of God, well done! well hast thou fought The better fight, who single hast maintain'd Against revolted multitudes the cause of truth.
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The redundant locks, robustious to no purpose, clustering down--vast monument of strength.
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