An epic poem, by the poet John Milton procures the heart of
many; yet receiving heated debate on its theological subject-matter, reconciles
the critics to acknowledge it all the same. Myself convinced, at its grandeur
composition and persistency in art, an art finery then subjected to seclusion:
worldy, and by forever adieu to sight, treading the path to probing the
existence within. Mundane, celestial, all sorted out well, till occupied enough
to preach the sight sighed; and pose it exposed to the world to muse at what
persihed and is the peril of the esteemed author. Further the blindness, a
seclusion of ultimate nature, must have been the colossal element to feed the
chaos within, and later wards the hinges of the portal within and with-out.
To add, there is an element of rebellion to be observed in the feverish lust of words. The satan, the protagonist, itself advocates the point. He was a paragon of rebellion, and therefore adds to the churning up, burning up vibes in the reader; a reflection that the poet maintains. The poet must have been stirred up thoroughly, so as granting a franchise to oneself as to demean, then feign, then reign, palying all sort of pokers i must say.
Says he:
Vain wisdom all, and false Philosophy:
Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm
Pain for a while or anguish, and excite
Fallicious hope, or arm th'obdured breast
With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
How interestingly had he summed up the philosophy of patience above with a bit demeaning tendency. He had plunged unto the futility of cherished vain, and our pretensions which we may rank the ten-folds the thorough intelligence. Lame is all hope in its vile sorcery, which we own by the art of procured wisdom, holds naught but the faculty of stubborness.
p.s
a little criticism with authority none, but a little muse!
~by and by, unto Book II~
To add, there is an element of rebellion to be observed in the feverish lust of words. The satan, the protagonist, itself advocates the point. He was a paragon of rebellion, and therefore adds to the churning up, burning up vibes in the reader; a reflection that the poet maintains. The poet must have been stirred up thoroughly, so as granting a franchise to oneself as to demean, then feign, then reign, palying all sort of pokers i must say.
Says he:
Vain wisdom all, and false Philosophy:
Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm
Pain for a while or anguish, and excite
Fallicious hope, or arm th'obdured breast
With stubborn patience as with triple steel.
How interestingly had he summed up the philosophy of patience above with a bit demeaning tendency. He had plunged unto the futility of cherished vain, and our pretensions which we may rank the ten-folds the thorough intelligence. Lame is all hope in its vile sorcery, which we own by the art of procured wisdom, holds naught but the faculty of stubborness.
p.s
a little criticism with authority none, but a little muse!
~by and by, unto Book II~
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