To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.

And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

That space the Evil One abstracted stood From his own evil, and for the time remained Stupidly good, of enmity disarmed, Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge .

Courage never to submit of yield.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?