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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.

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
Heaven
Damp
Serenity
Despair
Quiet
Joy
Hell
Doubt
Suffering

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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.
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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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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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When I died last, and, Dear, I die As often as from thee I go Though it be but an hour ago, And lovers' hours be full eternity.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow. Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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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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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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At most, the greatest persons are but great wens, and excrescences men of wit and delightful conversation, but as morals for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
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And swear No where Lives a woman true, and fair.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
John Donne
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
John Donne
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
John Donne