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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Men
Habitations
Descends
Doings
Unseen
Visit
God
Mark
Walks

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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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The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit/Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste/Brought death into the world, and all our woe,/With loss of Eden, till one greater Man/Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,/Sing heavenly muse
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And if by prayer Incessant I could hope to change the will Of Him who all things can, I would not cease To weary Him with my assiduous cries.
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The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.
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Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
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Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.
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In vain doth valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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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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What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies.
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So little knows Any, but God alone, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
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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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But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light.
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Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
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This is the month, and this the happy morn, wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, our great redemption from above did bring.
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Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.
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Not to know me argues yourselves unknown.
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