The Baite Come live with mee, and bee my love, And wee will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and christall brookes, With silken lines, and silver hookes. There will the river whispering runne Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the Sunne. And there the'inamor'd fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swimme in that live bath, Each fish, which every channell hath, Will amorously to thee swimme, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seene, beest loath, By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both, And if my selfe have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legges, with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poore fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowie net: Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out-wrest, Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes. For thee, thou needst no such deceit, For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait; That fish, that is not catch'd thereby, Alas, is wiser farre than I.
John Donne Air and Angels Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see, But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is Love must not be, but take a body too, And therefore what thou wert, and who I bid love ask, and now That it assume thy body, I allow, And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw, I had love's pinnace overfraught, Every thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere; Then as an angel, face and wings Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear, So thy love may be my love's sphere; Just such disparity As is 'twixt air and angels' purity, 'Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be.
I could have snapped a picture and pasted it into my John Donne poetry book next to his Holy Sonnet No. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For those whom thou thinkest thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. In fact, in Verse 55 of that chapter, the Apostle Paul also taunts death, as if death were a pathetic would-be enemy.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Not all of us will die, but all of us will be changed. For indeed the bugle will blow, and the dead will live again — eternally — and we [those of us who are still alive at the time] shall be changed. Donne wins by a knock-out in the first round! You are commenting using your WordPress.
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Username Please enter your Username. Password Please enter your Password. Forgot password? Don't have an account? Sign in via your Institution. You could not be signed in, please check and try again. Sign in with your library card Please enter your library card number. Search within work. Anonymous : American life insurance proverb, in Newsweek 25 April Samuel Beckett —89 Irish dramatist, novelist, and poet: attributed.
Bertolt Brecht — German dramatist: The Mother sc. John Donne — English poet and divine: Holy Sonnets no.
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