An Ode to Milton

Mystic fog commingled with frost rest upon thee, hallowed marsh; sounding birds among the trees and the rustling of their leaves, signaling approaching Dawn, join together in sacred conversation. Morning sun and winds astray paint the sky in mad array; a tempest born of clouds beyond, the horizon beckons this Zephyr’s song. For no greater joy could there persist, no more wonderful feeling such as this, than to unite those hearts which are torn asunder — lest…