John Donne’s speaker lies imagining his own corpse being prepared for burial, and he insists that the shrouders not disturb the lock of a woman’s hair tied around his arm. He calls it his “outward Soul,” a deputy that will keep his body intact after his true soul departs—like a viceroy governing his limbs as provinces. The logic is playful but the mood is dark and intimate, blending deathly seriousness with erotic devotion. In a sudden twist, he wonders if she gave him the hair not as a love token but as a painful reminder, like manacles slipped onto a condemned prisoner. Either way, he demands it be buried with him, declaring himself Love’s martyr and warning that these “relics” might otherwise inspire idolatry. The closing note is both defiant and wounded: since she wouldn’t save any of him while he lived, he’ll bury a part of her now.
The Funeral — Summary
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 'tis my outward Soul, Viceroy to that which then to heaven being gone Will leave this to control 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, These hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art 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 condemned to die.
Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into others' hands these relics came; As 'twas humility To afford to it all that a Soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.