Quote

God made sun and moon to distinguish the seasons, and day and night and we cannot have the fruits of the earth but in their seasons. But God hath made no decrees to distinguish the seasons of His mercies. In Paradise the fruits were ripe the first minute, and in heaven it is always autumn. His mercies are ever in their maturity.

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
First
Moon
Hath
Mercies
Made
Minutes
Paradise
Decrees
Always
Heaven
Minute
Decree
Night
Seasons
Distinguish
Cannot
Mercy
Ripe
Earth
Fruit
Fruits
Ever
God
Autumn
Firsts
Sun
Maturity

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So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.
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Commemoration of Richard Meux Benson, Founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, 1915 Our critical day is not the very day of our death, but the whole course of our life I thank him, that prays for me when my bell tolls but I thank him much more, that catechizes me, or preaches to me, or instructs me how to live.
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That subtle knot which makes us man So must pure lovers souls descend T affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great Prince in prison lies.
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I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.
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Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
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Sleep with clean hands, either kept clean all day by integrity or washed clean at night by repentance.
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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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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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The day breaks not, it is my heart.
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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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Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
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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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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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Lust-bred diseases rot thee.
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The difference between the reason of man and the instinct of the beast is this, that the beast does but know, but the man knows that he knows.
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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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To be no part of any body, is to be nothing.
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I am a little world made cunningly.
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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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