Quote

My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Air
Regions
Mansion
Call
Immortal
Mansions
Spirit
Spots
Mild
Earth
Bright
Stir
Live
Flight
Serene
Men
Smoke
Aviation
Calm
Spirits
Shapes
Spot
Aerial

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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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Yet hold it more humane, more heav'nly, first, By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear.
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And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
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These eyes, tho' clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, not bate a jot Of heart or hope but still bear up and steer Right onward.
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But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
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For the air of youth, Hopeful and cheerful, in thy blood will reign A melancholy damp of cold and dry To weigh thy spirits down, and last consume The balm of life.
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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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Luck is the residue of design.
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Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
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True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves.
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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides.
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Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
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Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves.
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Believe and be confirmed.
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
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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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All seemed well pleased, all seemed, but were not all.
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