| Poems by John Donne |
from Meditation 17
No man is an island entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main; If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, As well as if a promontory were, As well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know For whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee. |
Holy Sonnett 10
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low And soonest our best men with thee do go - Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou art 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. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die! |