John Donne's Poetry - anthology.

John Donne's Poetry - anthology. English poet John Donne is known for both his sensitive portrayals of romantic love and his remarkable expressions of religious devotion. Critics place Donne, along with English poets George Herbert, Henry Vaughan, and Richard Crashaw, in the metaphysical school of poets. According to American-born English poet T. S. Eliot, these poets "engaged in the tasks of trying to find the verbal equivalent for states of mind and feeling." Donne applies this technique in "A Valediction: Of Weeping" (1590?), which uses an irregular form and elaborate metaphors to express the strong emotions of the poem. "Holy Sonnet #10" (1618) is one of Donne's most famous poems about death. Poetry of John Donne A Valediction: Of Weeping Let me pour forth My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here, For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear, And by this mintage they are something worth, For thus they be Pregnant of thee; Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more, When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore, So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore. On a round ball A workman that hath copies by, can lay An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, And quickly make that, which was nothing, All; So doth each tear Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so. O more than Moon, Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere, Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear To teach the sea what it may do too soon; Let not the wind Example find To do me more harm than it purposeth; Since thou and I sigh one another's breath, Who'er sighs most its cruellest, and hastes the other's death. From Holy Sonnets Holy Sonnet #10 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: Donne, John. John Donne's Poetry. Clements, Arthur L., ed. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1992.