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And to the faithful: death, the gate of life.

John Milton

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John Milton
Age: 65 †
Born: 1608
Born: December 9
Died: 1674
Died: November 8
Poet
Politician
Writer
Life
Gate
Gates
Faithful
Death

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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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O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.
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God, who oft descends to visit men Unseen, and through their habitations walks To mark their doings.
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And grace that won who saw to wish her stay.
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Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam.
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So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
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Good luck befriend thee, Son for at thy birth The fairy ladies danced upon the hearth.
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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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Meanwhile the Adversary of God and man, Satan with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of hell Explores his solitary flight.
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Hail holy light, offspring of heav'n firstborn!
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Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
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And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe!
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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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Sweet intercourse of looks and smiles for smiles from reason flow.
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Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear
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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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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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What is dark within me, illumine.
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For truth is strong next to the Almighty. She needs no policies or stratagems or licensings to make her victorious. These are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power.
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Ink is the blood of the printing-press.
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