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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
John Milton
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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Song
Wells
Well
Love
Nightly
Nightingale
Nightingales
Thee
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Calm of mind, all passion spent.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?
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Let us no more contend, nor blame each other, blamed enough elsewhere, but strive, In offices of love, how we may lighten each other's burden.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise. That last infirmity of noble mind. To scorn delights, and live laborious days.
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Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
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Courage never to submit of yield.
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Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny for no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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So on this windy sea of land, the Fiend Walked up and down alone bent on his prey.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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No man who knows aught, can be so stupid to deny that all men naturally were born free.
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Eloquence the soul, song charms the senses.
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On the tawny sands and shelves trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
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Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.
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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
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