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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

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
Kill
Dies
Death
Poore
Canst
Thou
Thee

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In heaven it is always autumn.
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O Lord, never suffer us to think that we can stand by ourselves, and not need thee.
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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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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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Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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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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Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?
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If every gnat that flies were an archangel, all that could but tell me that there is a God and the poorest worm that creeps tells me that.
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If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.
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At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
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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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Friends are ourselves.
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No man is an island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the continent.
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This Extasie doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love, Wee see by this, it was not sexe, Wee see, we saw not what did move: But as all severall soules contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love, these mixt souls, doth mixe againe. Loves mysteries in soules doe grow, But yet the body is his booke.
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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
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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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Eternity is not an everlasting flux of time, but time is as a short parenthesis in a long period.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
John Donne