Ode - Poem by John Donne
I. VENGEANCE will sit above our faults ; but till
She there do sit,
We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still
We lead her way ; and thus, whilst we do ill,
We suffer it.
2. Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill.
Enough we labour under age, and care ;
In number, th' errors of the last place are
The greatest still.
3. Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent,
Strange thing ! perceive not ; our faults are not seen,
But past us ; neither felt, but only in
4. But we know ourselves least ; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
That our souls no more than our eyes disclose
But form and colour. Only he who knows
Himself, knows more.
Comments about Ode by John Donne
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.