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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.

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
Element
Quite
Calls
Fire
Philosopher
Lost
Sun
Earth
Elements
Look
Direct
Mans
Wells
Philosophy
Coherence
Well
Wit
Looks
Doubt

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Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock breathe, shine, and seek to mend That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
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But I do nothing upon myself, and yet I am my own executioner.
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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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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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As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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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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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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That thou remember them, some claim as debt I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
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God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.
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There is hook in every benefit, that sticks in his jaws that takes that benefit, and draws him whither the benefactor will.
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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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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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