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Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, angels affect us oft, and worshiped be.

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
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Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Names
Flames
Face
Angels
Twice
Faces
Thee
Voice
Angel
Shapeless
Love
Loved
Thrice
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Affect

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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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Be more than man, or thou'rt less than an ant.
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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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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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Great sorrows cannot speak.
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I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
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And if there be any addition to knowledge, it is rather a new knowledge than a greater knowledge rather a singularity in a desire of proposing something that was not knownat all beforethananimproving, anadvancing, a multiplying of former inceptions and by that means, no knowledge comes to be perfect.
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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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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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Wicked is not much worse than indiscreet.
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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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I shall not live 'till I see God and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
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Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.
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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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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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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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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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