Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Song by John Donne


Sweetest love, I do not go
   For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
   A fitter love for me;
      But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest,
   Thus by feigned deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
   And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
   Nor half so short a way:
      Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
   More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
   That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
   Nor a lost hour recall!
      But come bad chance,
And we join t' it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
   Itself o'er us t' advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
   But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
   My life's blood doth decay.
      It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste;
   Thou art the best of me.

Let not they divining heart
   Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take they part,
   And may thy fears fulfill;
      But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
   Alive, ne'er parted be.

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