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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.

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
Midnight
Year
Years

More quotes by John Donne

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I shall die reading since my book and a grave are so near.
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Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.
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I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.
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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love.
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So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.
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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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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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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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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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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.
John Donne
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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
John Donne
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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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Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
John Donne
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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
John Donne
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When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language.
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God is so omnipresent. . . . God is an angel in an angel, and a stone in a stone, and a straw in a straw.
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Enjoyment always has a spoiling, otherwise it cannot be so.
John Donne
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
John Donne
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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.
John Donne