Compelled by a dragon-fate,

You failed to see the face of ecstasy.

The want of sight and wives

Had planted in you a venom-tree.

But ‘Paradise Lost’ of yours

Will never be lost with history’s fleeting flow.

Our world treasures your boon,

And yours was the life that suffered a giant blow.

 Excerpt from Philosopher-Thinkers: The Power-Towers Of The Mind And Poet-Seers: The Fragrance-Hours Of The Heart In The West by Sri Chinmoy.

 ~~~~~

Quotes by Milton

But what will not ambition and revenge Descend to? who aspires must down as low As high he soar’d, obnoxious first and last To basest things.

~

If at great things thou would’st arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me; Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand, They whom I favor thrive in wealth amain, While virtue, valor, wisdom, sit in want.

Source: Paradise Regained (bk. II, l. 426)

~

The hasty multitude Admiring enter’d, and the work some praise, And some the architect: his hand was known In heaven by many a tower’d structure high, Where scepter’d angels held their residence, And sat as princes.

Source: Paradise Lost (bk. I, l. 730)

~

So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, That, when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lacky her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

Source: Comus (l. 453)

~

CHRISTMAS DAY ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST’S NATIVITY This the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven’s Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light insufferable, And that far-beaming blaze majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity He laid aside, and, here with us to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the Sun’s team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet! Oh, run! present them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire, From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.