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As in an organ from one blast of wind To many a row of pipes the soundboard breathes.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Organ
Blast
Pipe
Organs
Breathe
Wind
Music
Pipes
Many
Breathes

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The pious and just honoring of ourselves may be thought the fountainhead from whence every laudable and worthy enterprise issues forth.
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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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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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It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
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What is strength without a double share of wisdom?
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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.
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Those whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
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Lords are lordliest in their wine.
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And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?
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Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.
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Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
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So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.
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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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From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.
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Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
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Thrones, dominions, princedoms, virtues, powers-- If these magnific titles yet remain Not merely titular.
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And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
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