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What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Better
Reverent
Humbly
Confess
Pardon
Faults
Ground
Tears
Prostrate
Fall
Watering

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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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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.
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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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A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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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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For to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
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Let us go forth and resolutely dare with sweat of brow to toil our little day.
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At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
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Where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand For hot, cold, moist, and dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mast'ry.
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Hide me from day's garish eye.
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Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.
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His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.
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Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
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Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
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You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
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