“A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames No light; but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe”

“Now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting painTorments him; round he throws his baleful eyesThat witnessed huge affliction and dismayMixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate:At once as far as angels ken he viewsThe dismal situation waste and wild,A dungeon horrible, on all sides roundAs one great furnace flamed, yet from those flamesNo light, but rather darkness visibleServed only to discover sights of woe,Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peaceAnd rest can never dwell, hope never comesThat comes to all; but torture without endStill urges, and a fiery deluge, fedWith ever-burning sulfur unconsumed.”

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

“We boast our light; but if we look not wisely on the run itself, it smites us into darkness. Who can discern those planets that are oft combust, and those starts of brightest magnitude that rise and set with the sun, until the opposite motion of their orbs bring them to such a place in the firmament where they may be seen evening or morning? The light which we have gained was given us, not to be ever staring on, but by it to discover onward things more remote from our knowledge.”

“He that has light within his own clear breast May sit in the center, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself his own dungeon.”

“They, looking back, all the eastern side beheldOf Paradise, so late their happy seat,Waved over by that flaming brand, the gateWith dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms:Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;The world was all before them, where to chooseTheir place of rest, and Providence their guide;They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,Through Eden took their solitary way.”

“When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide,"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies: "God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts: who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and wait.”