AN HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER HEAR me, O God! A broken heart If thou hadst not Myself and Thee. For, sin's so sweet, Their punishment. Who more can crave Than Thou hast done? Thou gav'st a Son First made of nought, Sin, death, and hell His glorious Name And slight the same. But, I'll come in Under his cross. JOHN DONNE [1573-1631] SONG Go and catch a falling star, What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Ride ten thousand days and nights Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one let me know, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. THE DREAM DEAR love, for nothing less than thee For reason, much too strong for fantasy. As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; 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, when thou knew'st when I must confess it could not choose but be Coming and staying show'd thee, thee; That love is weak where fear's as strong as he: 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. LOVE'S DEITY I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost I must love her that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, But every modern god will not extend Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, As though I felt the worst that Love could do? Love may make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too; Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see. Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love, should love me. THE FUNERAL WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Have from a better brain, Can better do't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die. Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me, Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry T'afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. THE WILL BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, |