John Donne

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

John Donne Poems

1. Good Friday 10/21/2014
2. Psalme Cxxxvii. 10/21/2014
3. The Soule 10/21/2014
4. To Sir Henry Wotton 4/9/2010
5. To The Earl Of Doncaster 4/9/2010
6. To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders 4/9/2010
7. Mercurius Gallo-Belgicus 4/9/2010
8. Translated Out Of Gazaeus, 4/9/2010
9. To Sir Henry Wotton Ii 4/9/2010
10. Klockius 4/9/2010
11. Satire V 4/9/2010
12. To Sir Henry Goodyere 4/9/2010
13. To The Countess Of Bedford Ii 4/9/2010
14. Nativity 4/9/2010
15. To Mr. Samuel Brooke 4/9/2010
16. To Mr.I.L. 4/9/2010
17. Upon The Translation Of The Psalms By Sir Philip Sidney And The Countess Of Pembroke, His Sister 4/9/2010
18. Epithalamion Made At Lincoln's Inn 4/9/2010
19. Holy Sonnet Xi: Spit In My Face You Jews, And Pierce My Side 4/9/2010
20. To Mr. I. P. 4/9/2010
21. To Mr.T.W. 4/9/2010
22. Raderus 4/9/2010
23. Valediction To His Book 4/9/2010
24. Niobe 4/9/2010
25. To The Praise Of The Dead And The Anatomy 4/9/2010
26. Satire I 4/9/2010
27. Satire Ii 4/9/2010
28. To Mr. Rowland Woodward 4/9/2010
29. Holy Sonnet Viii: If Faithful Souls Be Alike Glorified 4/9/2010
30. Ralphius 4/9/2010
31. Crucifying 4/9/2010
32. La Corona 4/9/2010
33. Fall Of A Wall 4/9/2010
34. Elegy Xi: The Bracelet 4/9/2010
35. Sonnet Cycle For Lady Magdalen 4/9/2010
36. Temple 4/9/2010
37. Elegy Xiv: Julia 4/9/2010
38. Elegy Xii 4/9/2010
39. Phryne 4/9/2010
40. To The Lady Magdalen Herbert, Of St. Mary Magdalen 4/9/2010

Comments about John Donne

  • Sumana kanjilal (11/1/2018 1:19:00 AM)


    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • mithun (9/6/2018 12:43:00 AM)

    superbb this poems and i am proud of tihs poem

  • md adil (7/5/2018 5:07:00 AM)

    nice poem

  • sticks (12/1/2017 8:42:00 PM)

    all sticks are back and are shitty too

  • Poopy Butt (10/30/2017 12:23:00 PM)

    I pooped my pants last night four times last night and my room smells like Elena’s nasty vagina.

  • Poopy Butt (10/30/2017 12:22:00 PM)

    I pooped my pants four times last night and my room smells like Daisy’s nasty vagina.

  • Anandkishor Chakravarty (6/2/2017 1:30:00 PM)

    Candid philosopher

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (3/2/2016 1:50:00 PM)

    About the statement: ''He [John Donne] is considered the pre-eminent representative of the metaphysical poets''.:

    In the chapter on Abraham Cowley in his Lives of the Most Eminent English Poets (1779–81) , Samuel Johnson refers to the beginning of the seventeenth century in which there appeared a race of writers that may be termed the metaphysical poets. This does not necessarily imply that he intended metaphysical to be used in its true sense, in that he was probably referring to a witticism of John Dryden, who said of John Donne:

    He affects the metaphysics, not only in his satires, but in his amorous verses, where nature only should reign; and perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice speculations of philosophy, when he should engage their hearts, and entertain them with the softnesses of love. In this... Mr. Cowley has copied him to a fault.

  • Joseph Dela Sulh (losembe) Joseph Dela Sulh (losembe) (7/1/2015 8:39:00 PM)

    This poet is wonderful

  • Panmelys Panmelys Panmelys Panmelys (12/3/2014 11:09:00 AM)

    Very interesting comments. Not enjoying poems on love seems a great sadness, I'd like to quote that Love is never wasted, even when it doesn't last, lines by Panmelys a new member, myself. John Donne is a great favorite and brings much joy to many, this is greatness. Like many others in this period, it's amazing how modern they seem, in spite of the gabs between epochs. Panmelys

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,

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