John Donne
John Donne
John Donnewas an English poet and a cleric in the Church of England. He is considered the pre-eminent representative of the metaphysical poets. His works are noted for their strong, sensual style and include sonnets, love poems, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially compared to that of his contemporaries. Donne's style is characterised by abrupt openings and various paradoxes, ironies and dislocations...
best deaths die fitter hope love nor since sweetest thus weariness
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 myself in jest, / Thus by feigned deaths to die.
died full hour hours lovers thee though
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.
died full hour hours thee though
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.
died god love talk
I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, / Who died before the god of love was born.
world dies
My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
thee kill-me dies
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
sleep past dies
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
dies
Death, thou shalt die.
heavenly dies
I shall not live 'till I see God; and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
balm earth general hath sap
The world's whole sap is sunk: / The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk.
Be your own palace, or the world is your jail.
both break ghost happiest last selves sucks thou turn
So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, / Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away,/ Turn thou ghost that way, and let me turn this, / And let our selves benight our happiest day.
goes propose sea sick true whoever
Whoever loves, if he do not propose the right true end of love, he's one that goes to sea for nothing but to make him sick
crowns harm nor question shroud subtle
Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm / Nor question much / That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm.