John Milton

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

On Time - Poem by John Milton

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast intombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, t' whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.


Comments about On Time by John Milton

  • (11/4/2016 5:10:00 AM)


    Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
    Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time.
    Great conceptualization. Thanks for sharing it here.
    (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 1 comments »



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Read poems about / on: loss, kiss, truth, happy, peace, joy, alone, death, time, running, star



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



[Report Error]