"PARADISE LOST"
Sing, Heavenly Muse, in lines that flow
More smoothly than the wandering Po,
Of man's descending from the height
Of Heaven itself, the blue, the bright,
To Hell's unutterable throe.
Of sin original and the woe
That fell upon us here below
From man's pomonic primal bite—
Sing, Heavenly Muse!
Of summer sun, of winter snow,
Of future days, of long ago,
Of morning and "the shades of night,"
Of woman, "my ever new delight,"
Go to it, Muse, and put us joe—
Sing, Heavenly Muse!
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