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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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The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
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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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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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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
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Let none admire that riches grow in hell that soil may best deserve the precious bane.
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With thee conversing I forget all time.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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Ornate rhetorick taught out of the rule of Plato.... To which poetry would be made subsequent, or indeed rather precedent, as being less suttle and fine, but more simple, sensuous, and passionate.
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For so I created them free and free they must remain.
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Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
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To live a life half dead, a living death.
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The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
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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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Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round
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The Tree of Knowledge grew fast by, Knowledge of Good bought dear by knowing ill.
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And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.
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Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.
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Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
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