Milton, his face set fair for Paradise,

And knowing that he and Paradise were lost

In separate desolation, bravely crossed

Into his second night and paid his price.

There towards the end he to the dark tower came

Set square in the gate, a mass of blackened stone

Crowned with vermulion fiends like streamers blown

From a great funnel filled with roaring flame.

Shut in his darkness, these he could not see,

But heard the steely clamour known too well

On Saturday nights in every street in Hell.

Where, past the devilish din, could Paradise be?

A footstep more, and his unblinded eyes

Saw far and near the fields of Paradise.