JOHN DONNE 1573–1631

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 wak’dst me wisely; yet My dream thou brok’st not but continu’dst it: Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truth, 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 lov’st 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, then thou knew’st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then; I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying showed 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 cam’st to kindle, goest to come: then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

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 soul’s delivery.

Thou ’rt 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.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 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.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two and wallowed in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore. And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more.

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For ’tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part, Can tie those parts and make me one of all; The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do’t; except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners are manacled when they’re condemned to die.

Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me; For since I am Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry If into others’ hands these relics came. As ’twas humility To afford to it all that a soul can do, So ’twas some bravery That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.