John Donne

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

John Donne Poems

161. Elegy I: Jealousy 1/13/2003
162. Eclogue 4/9/2010
163. Disinherited 4/9/2010
164. Death Be Not Proud 5/14/2001
165. Daybreak 1/4/2003
166. Crucifying 4/9/2010
167. Confined Love 1/13/2003
168. Community 4/9/2010
169. Break Of Day (Another Of The Same) 1/1/2004
170. Break Of Day 1/3/2003
171. At The Round Earth's Imagin'D Corners 1/20/2003
172. Ascension 4/9/2010
173. Antiquary 4/9/2010
174. Annunciation 4/9/2010
175. An Obscure Writer 4/9/2010
176. An Anatomy Of The World... 5/14/2001
177. Air And Angels 1/3/2003
178. A Valediction: Of Weeping 1/3/2003
179. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning 5/14/2001
180. A Valediction Of Weeping 5/14/2001
181. A Sheaf Of Snakes Used Heretofore To Be My Seal, The Crest Of Our Poor Family 4/9/2010
182. A Self Accuser 4/9/2010
183. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day 5/14/2001
184. A Litany 4/9/2010
185. A Licentious Person 4/9/2010
186. A Lecture Upon The Shadow 5/14/2001
187. A Lame Beggar 1/3/2003
188. A Jet Ring Sent 4/9/2010
189. A Hymn To God The Father 5/14/2001
190. A Hymn To Christ At The Author's Last Going Into Germany 1/13/2003
191. A Fever 1/3/2003
192. A Dialogue Between Sir Henry Wootton And Mr. Donne 4/9/2010
193. A Burnt Ship 1/1/2004
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]