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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.

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
Worms
Tells
Gnat
God
Gnats
Tell
Archangel
Every
Worm
Creeps
Poorest
Flies

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To roam Giddily, and be everywhere but at home, Such freedom doth a banishment become.
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As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.
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And new Philosophy calls all in doubt, the element of fire is quite put out the Sun is lost, and the earth, and no mans wit can well direct him where to look for it.
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Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
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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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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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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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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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Affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
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But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.
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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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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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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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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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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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Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.
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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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Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
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Never start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
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