L's blog: "John Donne poetry"

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 At the last must part, 'tis best, Thus to use myself in jest By feigned deaths to die. Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here to-day; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way; Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Speedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall; But come bad chance, And we join to it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away; When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lovest me as thou say'st, If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me. Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfil. But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep. They who one another keep Alive, ne'er parted be.

I can love both fair and brown; Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays; Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays; Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town; Her who believes, and her who tries; Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, And her who is dry cork, and never cries. I can love her, and her, and you, and you; I can love any, so she be not true. Will no other vice content you? Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers? Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others? Or doth a fear that men are true torment you? O we are not, be not you so; Let me—and do you—twenty know; Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. Must I, who came to travel thorough you, Grow your fix'd subject, because you are true? Venus heard me sigh this song; And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more. She went, examined, and return'd ere long, And said, "Alas ! some two or three Poor heretics in love there be, Which think to stablish dangerous constancy. But I have told them, 'Since you will be true, You shall be true to them who're false to you.'"

Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best, Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me; Yet I thought thee —For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then, I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane, to think thee any thing but thee. Coming and staying show'd thee, thee, But rising makes me doubt, that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak where fear's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have; Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me; Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come; then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

Stay, O sweet, and do not rise; The light that shines comes from thine eyes; The day breaks not, it is my heart, Because that you and I must part. Stay, or else my joys will die, And perish in their infancy.

He is stark mad, whoever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should say I saw a flash of powder burn a day? Ah, what a trifle is a heart, If once into love's hands it come! All other griefs allow a part To other griefs, and ask themselves but some; They come to us, but us love draws; He swallows us and never chaws; By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die; He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry. If 'twere not so, what did become Of my heart when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, But from the room I carried none with me. If it had gone to thee, I know Mine would have taught thine heart to show More pity unto me ; but Love, alas! At one first blow did shiver it as glass. Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.