John Donne (1572 – 1631)
Jacobean metaphysical poet.
I long to talk with some old lover's ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born.
'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.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.
Now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons.
And swear
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke.
Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints forevermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.
Send home my long strayed eyes to me,
Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.
How deepe do we dig, and for how coarse gold?
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain.
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes,
For he who color loves, and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.
The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can.
I observe the physician with the same diligence as he the disease.
Our two souls therefore which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Age is a sicknesse, and Youth is an ambush.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be."
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
To taste whole joys.
Let us love nobly, and live, and add again
Years and years unto years, till we attain
To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.