John Milton

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

John Milton Poems

81. Paradise Lost: Book 07 1/13/2003
82. At A Vacation Exercise In The Colledge, Part Latin, Part English. The Latin Speeches Ended, The English Thus Began 1/13/2003
83. Paradise Lost: Book 08 1/13/2003
84. At A Vatican Exercise (Excerpt) 1/1/2004
85. Paradise Lost: Book 09 1/13/2003
86. Paradise Lost: Book X 1/3/2003
87. Paradise Lost: Book 10 1/13/2003
88. Paradise Lost: Book 03 1/13/2003
89. Song On May Morning 1/3/2003
90. Samson Agonistes 1/3/2003
91. Paradise Regained 12/31/2002
92. Sonnet Xix: When I Consider How My Light Is Spent 1/1/2004
93. On The Death Of A Fair Infant Dying Of A Cough 1/13/2003
94. Paradise Lost: Book 04 1/13/2003
95. Paradise Lost: Book 02 1/13/2003
96. On The Same 1/3/2003
97. From 'samson Agonistes' I 1/4/2003
98. Comus (Excerpts) 1/1/2004
99. On Time 1/3/2003
100. On The Morning Of Christ’s Nativity 1/3/2003
101. Another On The Same 1/13/2003
102. Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint 1/3/2003
103. An Epitaph On The Admirable Dramatic Poet W. Shakespeare 1/3/2003
104. Il Penseroso 12/31/2002
105. L'Allegro 12/31/2002
106. At A Solemn Music 1/3/2003
107. On His Deceased Wife 1/4/2003
108. Light 1/4/2003
109. Paradise Lost: Book 01 1/13/2003
110. Arcades 1/13/2003
111. Hymn On The Morning Of Christ's Nativity 1/4/2003
112. Lycidas 12/31/2002
113. Sonnet Vii: How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth 1/3/2003
114. On Shakespear 1/3/2003
115. On His Blindness 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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