John Donne : Popular Poems

JOHN DONNE : 1572 - 1631

 #  1.  THE SUN RISING

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

               Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

               Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

               Late school boys and sour prentices,

         Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,

         Call country ants to harvest offices,

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time,

               Thy beams, so reverend and strong

               Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long;

               If her eyes have not blinded thine,

               Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,

         Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine

         Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

               She's all states, and all princes, I,

               Nothing else is.

Princes do but play us; compared to this,

All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

               Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,

               In that the world's contracted thus.

         Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

         To warm the world, that's done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

#  2.  THE ANNIVERSARY

All Kings, and all their favourites,

         All glory of honours, beauties, wits,

    The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,

    Is elder by a year now than it was

    When thou and I first one another saw:

    All other things to their destruction draw,

         Only our love hath no decay;

    This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,

    Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

         Two graves must hide thine and my corse;

         If one might, death were no divorce.

    Alas, as well as other Princes, we

    (Who Prince enough in one another be)

    Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,

    Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;

         But souls where nothing dwells but love

    (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove

    This, or a love increasèd there above,

When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.

         And then we shall be throughly blessed;

         But we no more than all the rest.

    Here upon earth we’re Kings, and none but we

    Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects be;

    Who is so safe as we? where none can do

    Treason to us, except one of us two.

         True and false fears let us refrain,

    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.

#  3.  THE RELIC

When my grave is broke up again

       Some second guest to entertain,

       (For graves have learn'd that woman head,

       To be to more than one a bed)

                And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,

                Will he not let'us alone,

And think that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their souls, at the last busy day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

         If this fall in a time, or land,

         Where mis-devotion doth command,

         Then he, that digs us up, will bring

         Us to the bishop, and the king,

                To make us relics; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

                A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men;

And since at such time miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

         First, we lov'd well and faithfully,

         Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;

         Difference of sex no more we knew

         Than our guardian angels do;

                Coming and going, we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

                Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals

Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;

These miracles we did, but now alas,

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.

#  6. HOLY SONNETS

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 but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's 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.

Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org

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