Nor Dim Nor Red, Like God's Own

Nature Never Deserts The Wise And Pure; No Plot So Narrow, Be But Nature There; No Waste So Vacant, But May Well Employ Each Faculty Of Sense, And Keep The Heart Awake To Love And Beauty.

For I Often Please Myself With The Fancy, Now That I May Have Saved From Oblivion The Only Striking Passage In A Whole Volume, And Now That I May Have Attracted Notice To A Writer Undeservedly Forgotten.

A Noise Like Of A Hidden Brook In The Leafy Month Of June, That To The Sleeping Woods All Night Singeth A Quiet Tune.

That Gracious Thing, Made Up Of Tears And Light.

Milton Has Carefully Marked In His Satan The Intense Selfishness, The Alcohol Of Egotism, Which Would Rather Reign In Hell Than Serve In Heaven.