Paradise lost

…from the quills of the dead white poets


John Milton (1608 – 1674)


 High in front advanc’d

 The brandish’d sword of God before them blaz’d

 Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat,

 And vapour as the Libyan air adust,

 began to parch that temperate clime: whereat

 In either hand hast’ning Angel caught

 Our ling’ring parents, and to th’ eastern gate

 Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast

 To the subjected plain; then disappear’d.

 They looking back, all th’ eastern side beheld

 Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

 Wav’d over by that flaming brand, the gate

 With dreadful faces throng’d and fiery arms:

 Some natural tears they dropp’d, but whip’d them soon;

 The world was all before them, where to choose

 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

 They hand in hand with wand’ring steps and slow,

 Through Eden took their solitary way.


 (From Paradise Lost, Book XII


About Avadoro Worden

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