JOHN MILTON

And missing thee, I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven Green.

To behold the wandring Moon,

Riding neer her highest noon,

Like one that had bin led astray

Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a Plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,

Over som wide-water'd shoar,

Swinging slow with sullen roar ;

Or if the Ayr will not permit,

Som still removed place will fit,

Where glowing Embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,

Or the Belmans Arousie charm,

To bless the dores from nightly harm :

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,

Be seen in som high lonely Towr,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear

The spirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold

The immortal mind that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook :

And of those Demons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With Planet, or with Element.

Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy

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