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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.

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
None
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Would
Bury
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.
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I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure Time shall not lose our passages.
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We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.
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...Whatever dies was not mixed equally, If our two loves be one Or thou and I love so alike That none can slacken, none can die.
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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
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That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.
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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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And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
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God employs several translators some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
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Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow, And for our children we reserve tomorrow.
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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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