Love, said Melanippides, "sowing in the heart of man the sweet harvest of
desire, mixes the sweetest and most beautiful things together."
No one indeed could complain now, with Phaedrus in Plato's Symposium, that
Love has had no worshippers among the Poets. On the contrary, Love has
brought them many of their sweetest inspirations; none perhaps nobler or
more beautiful than Milton's description of Paradise:
"With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower
Glistering with dew, fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower
Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.
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