Explore "Blind Old Milton" by W.E. Aytoun on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun / May shine upon my old and time-worn head, / For the last time, perchance. My race is run; / And soon amidst the ever-silent dead / I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread / For many a year, with those who trembled not / To buckle on their armour for the fight, / And set themselves against the tyrant's lot; / And I have never bowed me to his might, / Nor knelt before him -- for I bear within / My heart the sternest consciousness of right, / And that perpetual hate of gilded sin / Which made me what I am; and though the stain / Of poverty be on me, yet I win / More honour by it, than the blinded train / Who hug their willing servitude, and bow / Unto the weakest and the most profane.