John Milton

Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass, when the
Fates summon him, sing at read more

Thus does the white swan, as he lies on the wet grass, when the
Fates summon him, sing at the fords of Maeander.

Yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible.

Yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
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Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale.

There swift return
Diurnal, merely to officiate light
Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.

There swift return
Diurnal, merely to officiate light
Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.

. . . and now expecting
Each hour their great adventurer, from the search
Of foreign words.

. . . and now expecting
Each hour their great adventurer, from the search
Of foreign words.