John Donne (1572 – 1631)
Jacobean metaphysical poet.
O my America! my new-found land.
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;
For, thus friends absent speak.
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?
What ever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
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 feigned deaths to die.
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.