John Donne

(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631 / London, England)

John Donne Poems

121. Phryne 4/9/2010
122. Psalme Cxxxvii. 10/21/2014
123. Pyramus And Thisbe 4/9/2010
124. Raderus 4/9/2010
125. Ralphius 4/9/2010
126. Ressurection 4/9/2010
127. Resurrection, Imperfect 1/1/2004
128. Satire I 4/9/2010
129. Satire Ii 4/9/2010
130. Satire Iii 5/14/2001
131. Satire Iv 1/1/2004
132. Satire V 4/9/2010
133. Self-Love 1/3/2003
134. Song 5/14/2001
135. Song: Go And Catch A Falling Star 1/1/2004
136. Sonnet Cycle For Lady Magdalen 4/9/2010
137. Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go 12/31/2002
138. Temple 4/9/2010
139. That Time And Absence Proves Rather Helps Than Hurts To Loves 1/4/2003
140. The Anniversary 4/9/2010
141. The Annunciation And Passion 4/9/2010
142. The Apparation 1/1/2004
143. The Bait 5/14/2001
144. The Blossom 4/9/2010
145. The Broken Heart 1/3/2003
146. The Calm 1/1/2004
147. The Canonization 1/3/2003
148. The Computation 5/14/2001
149. The Curse 4/9/2010
150. The Damp 1/13/2003
151. The Dissolution 1/13/2003
152. The Dream 1/3/2003
153. The Ecstasy 5/14/2001
154. The Expiration 1/3/2003
155. The Flea 1/3/2003
156. The Funerall 1/3/2003
157. The Harbinger 4/9/2010
158. The Indifferent 5/14/2001
159. The Legacy 1/3/2003
160. The Message 1/3/2003
Best Poem of John Donne

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

Read the full of No Man Is An Island

Holy Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

[Hata Bildir]