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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Seen
Equinox
Beauty
September
Face
Autumn
Age
Hath
Faces
Seasons
Fall
Summer
Spring
Grace
Autumnal

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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
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As God loves a cheerful giver, so he also loves a cheerful taker. Who takes hold of his gifts with a glad heart.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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We love and understand talent we wish it be within us. The truly gifted, those exceptional few, must wait for the world to catch up.
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.
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If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.
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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification.
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Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, Why ploughing, building, ruling and the rest, Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blessed, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blessed Seth vexed us with astronomy.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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That thou remember them, some claim as debt I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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My love though silly is more brave.
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