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Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
High
Autumnal
Arch
Arches
Shades
Brooks
Shade
Thick
Leaves

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So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair that ever since in love's embraces met -- Adam, the goodliest man of men since born his sons the fairest of her daughters Eve.
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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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And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature: This is old age but then thou must outlive Thy youth, thy strength, thy beauty, which will change To withered weak and grey.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones Forget not.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
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A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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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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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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To be blind is not miserable not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
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The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
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A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses
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