Classic Poem

They say that Love, poor little Love, is blind.
'Twas Milton's fate to be likewise, and he
Deep in his soul the stores of wealth divined
That crowned his brow with Immortality.

So Love, of sight bereft, with eyes of Soul
Still wends his way, and serves his Godlike part,
And age on age leads mortals to the goal
Where lie the richest treasures of the heart!