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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.

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
Prayer
Angels
Thither
Call
Coaches
Rattling
Religion
Noise
Whining
Christian
Throw
Invite
God
Chamber
Angel
Invites
Door
Coach
Doors
Neglect

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That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.
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All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay.
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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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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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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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Nothing but man of all envenomed things, doth work upon itself, with inborn stings.
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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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In heaven it is always autumn.
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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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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
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The day breaks not, it is my heart.
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Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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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 which attempts to elevate the ugly to the level of beauty becomes neither but an obscenity.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
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When God's hand is bent to strike, it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God but to fall out of the hands of the living God is a horror beyond our expression, beyond our imagination.
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