Milton

The Sons of Ozoth within the Optic Nerve stand fiery glowing.
And the number of his sons is eight millions & eight.
They give delights to the man unknown, artificial riches
They give to scorn, & their possessors to trouble & sorrow & care,
Shutting the sun, & moon, & stars, & trees, & clouds, & waters,
And hills out from the Optic Nerve & hardening it into a bone
Opake, and like the black pebble on the enraged beach,
While the poor indigent is like the diamond which, tho’ cloth’d
In rugged covering in the mine, is open all within,
And in his hallow’d centre holds the heavens of bright eternity.