John Donne

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

John Donne Poems

1. Psalme Cxxxvii. 10/21/2014
2. Good Friday 10/21/2014
3. The Soule 10/21/2014
4. To Sir Henry Goodyere 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. Translated Out Of Gazaeus, 4/9/2010
8. To Sir Henry Wotton Ii 4/9/2010
9. To Sir Henry Wotton 4/9/2010
10. Holy Sonnet Xi: Spit In My Face You Jews, And Pierce My Side 4/9/2010
11. Mercurius Gallo-Belgicus 4/9/2010
12. To Mr.T.W. 4/9/2010
13. To The Countess Of Bedford Ii 4/9/2010
14. To The Praise Of The Dead And The Anatomy 4/9/2010
15. Klockius 4/9/2010
16. To Mr. Rowland Woodward 4/9/2010
17. To Mr. Samuel Brooke 4/9/2010
18. To The Lady Magdalen Herbert, Of St. Mary Magdalen 4/9/2010
19. Upon The Translation Of The Psalms By Sir Philip Sidney And The Countess Of Pembroke, His Sister 4/9/2010
20. To Mr. I. P. 4/9/2010
21. To Sir Henry Wotton At His Going Ambassador To Venice 4/9/2010
22. To The Countess Of Bedford I 4/9/2010
23. Raderus 4/9/2010
24. The Harbinger 4/9/2010
25. Elegy Xi: The Bracelet 4/9/2010
26. Valediction To His Book 4/9/2010
27. Satire V 4/9/2010
28. Satire I 4/9/2010
29. Holy Sonnet Xix: Oh, To Vex Me, Contraries Meet In One 4/9/2010
30. To Mr.I.L. 4/9/2010
31. Ralphius 4/9/2010
32. Crucifying 4/9/2010
33. Elegy Xii 4/9/2010
34. Nativity 4/9/2010
35. Fall Of A Wall 4/9/2010
36. The Annunciation And Passion 4/9/2010
37. Temple 4/9/2010
38. Satire Ii 4/9/2010
39. Holy Sonnet Viii: If Faithful Souls Be Alike Glorified 4/9/2010
40. Twickenham Garden 4/9/2010
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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