The Life and Letters of John Donne: Dean of St. Paul's, Volym 2

Framsida
Dodd, Mead, 1899

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Sida 368 - 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 picture be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow; And Soonest our best men with thee do go — Rest of their bones and souls
Sida 279 - Since I am coming to that holy room Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore, 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.
Sida 366 - I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite, But black sin hath betray'd to endless night My world's both parts, and, oh, both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drown'd no more: But oh it must be burnt!
Sida 318 - O could we copy their mild virtues, then What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! Methinks their very names shine still and bright ; Apart, — like glowworms on a summer night ; Or lonely tapers when from far they fling A guiding ray ; or seen, like stars on high, Satellites burning in a lucid ring Around meek Walton's heavenly memory.
Sida 367 - At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.
Sida 349 - The vanquish'd fires withdraw from every place, Or, full with feeding, sink into a sleep: Each household genius shows again his face, And, from the hearths, the little Lares creep.
Sida 318 - THERE are no colours in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.
Sida 236 - ... a preacher in earnest, weeping sometimes for his auditory, sometimes with them, always preaching to himself like an angel from a cloud, but in none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to heaven in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and courtship to amend their lives...
Sida 196 - Which was my sin, though it were done before ? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore ? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more.
Sida 368 - 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.

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