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These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Ever
Forgiveness
Despair
Justly
Ears
Gracious
Deserve
Evils
Whose
Pardon
Open
Admit
Eye
Final
Evil
Finals

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Midnight brought on the dusky hour Friendliest to sleep and silence.
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The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
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But O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave.
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When language in common use in any country becomes irregular and depraved, it is followed by their ruin and degradation. For what do terms used without skill or meaning, which are at once corrupt and misapplied, denote but a people listless, supine, and ripe for servitude?
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Death to life is crown or shame.
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Biochemically, love is just like eating large amounts of chocolate.
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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.
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I call a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skillfully, and magnanimously all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war.
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This manner of writing wherein knowing myself inferior to myself? I have the use, as I may account it, but of my left hand.
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There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion, no orations equal to those of the prophets, and no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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Who can enjoy alone? Or all enjoying what contentment find?
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Behold now this vast city [London] a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection.
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Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
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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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Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.
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