Quotes from John Donne

Send home my long strayed eyes to me,Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right.

I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in and invite God and his angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.

Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;The mystery, the sign you must not touch,For 'tis my outward soul,Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,Will leave this to control,And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

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.

When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.

Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty 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.

What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

And now good morrow to our waking souls,Which watch not one another out of fear;For love, all love of other sights controls,And makes one little room, an everywhere.Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf souls.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for youAs yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.