John Milton

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

A mind not to be chang'd by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

A pillar'd shade High overarch'd, and echoing walks between.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.

A wilderness of sweets.

Abash'd the devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely.

Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.

Accuse not Nature: she hath done her part; Do thou but thine.