Sam Ayres, the official intern here at Team Mead, is turning 23 years old today. In lieu of an actual gift, which would only turn his attention to material things and away from the intangible rewards of interning, I’m posting our first Occasional Poem in his honor: a sonnet that John Milton wrote on his own 23rd birthday back in 1631.

Here it is, Sam: enjoy!

	How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
	   Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth yeer!
	   My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
	   But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
	Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
	   That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
	   And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
	   That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
	Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
	   It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n
	   To that same lot, however mean, or high,
	Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
	   All is, if I have grace to use it so,
	   As ever in my great task Masters eye.

Of course if you take my advice to subtract ten years when thinking about your age, you would come up with 13. But don’t cheer up too much—here is what Milton was writing at 15, “A Paraphrase of Psalm 114.” Worse, he was translating it—from Hebrew. And that wasn’t even his second, third or fourth language.

		WHEN the blest seed of Terah’s faithful Son
		After long toil their liberty had won,
		And passed from Pharian fields to Canaan land,
		Led by the strength of the Almighty’s hand,
		Jehovah’s wonders were in Israel shown,
		His praise and glory was in Israel known.
		That saw the troubled sea, and shivering fled,
		And sought to hide his froth-becurlèd head
		Low in the earth; Jordan’s clear streams recoil,
		As a faint host that hath received the foil.
		The high huge-bellied mountains skip like rams
		Amongst their ewes, the little hills like lambs.
		Why fled the ocean? and why skipped the mountains?
		Why turned Jordan toward his crystal fountains?
		Shake, Earth, and at the presence be aghast
		Of Him that ever was and aye shall last,
		That glassy floods from rugged rocks can crush,
		And make soft rills from fiery flint-stones gush.