John Donne

I have a friend who still believes in heaven. Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God. She thinks someone listens in heaven. On earth she's unusually competent. Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it. I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality But timid also, quick to shut my eyes. Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out According to nature. For my sake she intervened Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down Across the road.

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who Buries her head in the pillow So as not to see, the child who tells herself That light causes sadness- My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking On the same road, except it's winter now; She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music: Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing. Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees Like brides leaping to a great height- Then I'm afraid for her; I see her Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set; From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall. It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact That we're at ease with death, with solitude. My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move. She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image Capable of life apart from her. We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering- It's this stillness we both love. The love of form is a love of endings.

I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite; But black sin hath betrayed to endless night My worlds both parts, and (oh!) both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drowned no more: But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler: Let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.

This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace, My span's last inch, my minute's latest point, And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space; But my ever-waking part shall see that face, Whose fear already shakes my every joint: Then, as my soul, t' heaven her first seat, takes flight, And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell, So fall my sins that all may have their right (To where they're bred, and would press me) to hell. Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

Father, part of his double interest Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me, His jointure in the knotty Trinity He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest. This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest, Was from the world's beginning slain, and he Hath made two Wills which with the Legacy Of his and thy kingdom do thy Sons invest. Yet such are thy laws that men argue yet Whether a man those statutes can fulfil; None doth; but all-healing grace and spirit Revive again what law and letter kill. Thy law's abridgement, and thy last command Is all but love; Oh let this last Will stand!

No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnall face. Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape, This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape. If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame, Affection here takes Reverence's name. Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true, But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new. That was her torrid and inflaming time, This is her tolerable Tropique clime. Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence, He in a fever wishes pestilence. Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were, They were Love's graves; for else he is no where. Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb. Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where, In progress, yet his standing house is here. Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night; Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight In all her words, unto all hearers fit, You may at revels, you at counsel, sit. This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood; There he, as wine in June enrages blood, Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste And appetite to other things is past. Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree, Was loved for age, none being so large as she, Or else because, being young, nature did bless Her youth with age's glory, Barrenness. If we love things long sought, Age is a thing Which we are fifty years in compassing; If transitory things, which soon decay, Age must be loveliest at the latest day. But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack; Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack; Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade; Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made; Whose every tooth to a several place is gone, To vex their souls at Resurrection; Name not these living deaths-heads unto me, For these, not ancient, but antique be. I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day. Since such love's natural lation is, may still My love descend, and journey down the hill, Not panting after growing beauties so, I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.

Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot A constant habit; that when I would not I change in vows, and in devotion. As humorous is my contrition As my profane love, and as soon forgot: As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot, As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none. I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today In prayers and flattering speeches I court God: Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod. So my devout fits come and go away Like a fantastic ague; save that here Those are my best days, when I shake with feare.

Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for phantasy: Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. Thou art so truth that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, 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 angels art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess it could not choose but be Prophane to think thee anything but thee.

Comming 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, go'st to come; Then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

Why are we by all creatures waited on? Why do the prodigal elements supply Life and food to me, being more pure than I, Simple, and further from corruption? Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection? Why dost thou, bull, and bore so seelily, Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die, Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon? Weaker I am, woe is me, and worse than you, You have not sinned, nor need be timorous. But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue, But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, For us, His creatures, and His foes, hath died.