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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

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
Eye
Home
Long
Dwelt
Strayed
Send
Thee
Eyes

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This only is charity, to do all, all that we can.
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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keeps souls, The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enrols.
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we give each other a smile with a future in it
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Can there be worse sickness, than to know that we are never well, nor can be so?
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Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
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Nature hath no goal though she hath law.
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Religion is not a melancholy, the spirit of God is not a damper.
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All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
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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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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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That thou remember them, some claim as debt I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
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Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. For in best understandings sin began, Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. Only perchance beasts sin not wretched we Are beasts in all but white integrity.
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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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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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There is no health physicians say that we, at best, enjoy but neutrality.
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