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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421479" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 22</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,<br>To outward view, of blemish or of spot,<br>Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;<br>Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear<br>Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,<br>Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not<br>Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot<br>Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer<br>Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?<br>The conscience, Friend, t' have lost them overplied<br>In liberty's defence, my noble task,<br>Of which all Europe rings from side to side.<br>This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask<br>Content, though blind, had I no better guide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Milton">John Milton</a><div class=q>
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Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or wom..."></div>
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