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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.

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
Corners
Blow
Angel
Earth
Trumpets
Imagined
Angels
Round
Rounds

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How many times go we to comedies, to masques, to places of great and noble resort, nay even to church only to see the company.
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There is nothing that God hath established in a constant course of nature, and which therefore is done every day, but would seem a Miracle, and exercise our admiration, if it were done but once.
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The distance from nothing to a little, is ten thousand times more, than from it to the highest degree in this life.
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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God.
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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.
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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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My love though silly is more brave.
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.
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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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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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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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Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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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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