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From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Dale
Sighing
Haunted
Parting
Pale
Sent
Spring
Genius
Poplar

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We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. Abraham Lincoln, White House speech 11 April 1865. Or arm th' obdured breast With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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It is Chastity, my brother. She that has that is clad in complete steel.
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Oh, shame to men! devil with devil damn'd Firm concord holds, men only disagree Of creatures rational.
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I must not quarrel with the will Of highest dispensation, which herein, Haply had ends above my reach to know.
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Heaven Is as the Book of God before thee set, Wherein to read His wondrous works.
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Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
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Witness this new-made world, another Heav'n From Heaven Gate not farr, founded in view On the clear Hyaline, the Glassie Sea Of amplitude almost immense, with Starr's Numerous, and every Starr perhaps a world Of destined habitation.
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Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
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Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
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Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
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Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.
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Only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable, add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance, add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shall possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
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Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end.
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Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell myself am hell And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
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Our country is where ever we are well off.
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The great creator from his work returned Magnificent, his six days' work, a world.
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Time, though in Eternity, applied To motion, measures all things durable By present, past, and future.
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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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He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun Himself his own dungeon.
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Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.
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