Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so,For, those, whom thou thinkst, thou dost overthrow, die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
"John Donne" (22 January 1572 – 31 March 1631) was an English poet and a clergy/cleric in the Church of England. He is considered the pre-eminent representative of the metaphysical poets. His works are noted for their strong, sensual style and include sonnets, love poems, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, Elegy/elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially compared to that of his contemporaries. Donne's style is characterised by abrupt openings and various paradoxes, ironies and dislocations. These features, along with his frequent dramatic or everyday speech rhythms, his tense syntax and his tough eloquence, were both a reaction against the smoothness of conventional Elizabethan poetry and an adaptation into English of European baroque and mannerist techniques. His early career was marked by poetry that bore immense knowledge of English society and he met that knowledge with sharp criticism. Another important theme in Donne's poetry is the idea of true religion, something that he spent much time considering and about which he often theorized. He wrote secular poems as well as erotic and love poems. He is particularly famous for his mastery of metaphysical conceits.
If you enjoy these quotes, be sure to check out other famous poets! More John Donne on Wikipedia.Reason is our soul's left hand, Faith her right.
Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.
Men have conceived a twofold use of sleep; it is a refreshing of the body in this life, and a preparing of the soul for the next.
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were.
No man is an Island, intire of itselfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine...
Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
Keep us, Lord, so awake in the duties of our callings that we may sleep in Thy peace and wake in Thy glory.
No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
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