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One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more Death, thou shalt die.

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
Short
Shall
Sleep
Dies
Death
Shalt
Past
Eternally
Wake
Thou

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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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If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned alas why should I be?
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Love is a growing, or full constant light And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.
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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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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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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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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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In the first minute that my soul is infused, the Image of God is imprinted in my soul so forward is God in my behalf, and so early does he visit me.
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Festive alcohol sometimes leads to an excess of honesty.
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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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My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
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True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.
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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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No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
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Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
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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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