John Milton

(9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674 / London, England)

John Milton Poems

81. Sonnet 11 1/13/2003
82. Sonnet 12 1/13/2003
83. Sonnet 13 1/13/2003
84. Sonnet 14 1/13/2003
85. Sonnet 15 1/13/2003
86. Sonnet 16 1/13/2003
87. Sonnet 17 1/13/2003
88. Sonnet 18 1/13/2003
89. Sonnet 19 1/13/2003
90. Sonnet 20 1/13/2003
91. Sonnet 21 1/13/2003
92. Sonnet 22 1/13/2003
93. Sonnet 23 1/13/2003
94. Sonnet To The Nightingale 1/3/2003
95. Sonnet Vii: How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth 1/1/2004
96. Sonnet X: Daughter To That Good Earl 1/3/2003
97. Sonnet Xix: When I Consider How My Light Is Spent 1/1/2004
98. Sonnet Xvi: Cromwell, Our Chief Of Men 1/3/2003
99. Sonnet Xviii: On The Late Massacre In Piemont 1/1/2004
100. Sonnet Xx: Lawrence, Of Virtuous Father 1/3/2003
101. Sonnet Xxii: To Cyriack Skinner 1/1/2004
102. The Fifth Ode Of Horace. Lib. I 1/13/2003
103. The Hymn 1/3/2003
104. The Passion 1/3/2003
105. To A Virtuous Young Lady 1/3/2003
106. To Cyriack Skinner 1/3/2003
107. To Mr. Cyriack Skinner Upon His Blindness 1/13/2003
108. To Mr. H. Lawes On His Airs 1/3/2003
109. To Mr. Lawrence 1/3/2003
110. To My Lord Fairfax 1/13/2003
111. To Sir Henry Vane The Younger 1/3/2003
112. To The Lady Margaret Ley 1/3/2003
113. To The Lord Generall Cromwell May 1652 1/13/2003
114. To The Nightingale 1/3/2003
115. To The Same 1/3/2003
116. Upon The Circumcision 1/3/2003
117. When I Consider How My Light Is Spent 5/28/2012
118. When The Assault Was Intended To The City 1/3/2003
Best Poem of John Milton

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without ...

Read the full of On His Blindness

To The Same

Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though 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, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

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