John Milton

Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and raz'd, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

Till morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

These my sky-robes spun out of Iris' woof.

They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.

Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

The timely dew of sleep.