John Milton

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

His form had yet not lost
All his original brightness, not appear'd
Less than arch-angel ruined, and read more

His form had yet not lost
All his original brightness, not appear'd
Less than arch-angel ruined, and th' excess
Of glory obscured.

For I no sooner in my heart divin'd
My heart, which by a secret harmony
Still moves read more

For I no sooner in my heart divin'd
My heart, which by a secret harmony
Still moves with thine, joined in connection sweet.

Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat despair.

Thus repuls'd, our final hope
Is flat despair.

There does a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And casts a gleam read more

There does a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.