John Donne

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

John Donne Poems

1. A Burnt Ship 1/1/2004
2. A Dialogue Between Sir Henry Wootton And Mr. Donne 4/9/2010
3. A Fever 1/3/2003
4. A Hymn To Christ At The Author's Last Going Into Germany 1/13/2003
5. A Hymn To God The Father 5/14/2001
6. A Jet Ring Sent 4/9/2010
7. A Lame Beggar 1/3/2003
8. A Lecture Upon The Shadow 5/14/2001
9. A Licentious Person 4/9/2010
10. A Litany 4/9/2010
11. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day 5/14/2001
12. A Self Accuser 4/9/2010
13. A Sheaf Of Snakes Used Heretofore To Be My Seal, The Crest Of Our Poor Family 4/9/2010
14. A Valediction Of Weeping 5/14/2001
15. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning 5/14/2001
16. A Valediction: Of Weeping 1/3/2003
17. Air And Angels 1/3/2003
18. An Anatomy Of The World... 5/14/2001
19. An Obscure Writer 4/9/2010
20. Annunciation 4/9/2010
21. Antiquary 4/9/2010
22. Ascension 4/9/2010
23. At The Round Earth's Imagin'D Corners 1/20/2003
24. Break Of Day 1/3/2003
25. Community 4/9/2010
26. Confined Love 1/13/2003
27. Crucifying 4/9/2010
28. Daybreak 1/4/2003
29. Death Be Not Proud 5/14/2001
30. Disinherited 4/9/2010
31. Eclogue 4/9/2010
32. Elegy I: Jealousy 1/13/2003
33. Elegy Ii: The Anagram 1/3/2003
34. Elegy Iii: Change 1/3/2003
35. Elegy Iv: The Perfume 1/13/2003
36. Elegy Ix: The Autumnal 5/14/2001
37. Elegy V: His Picture 5/14/2001
38. Elegy Vi 1/13/2003
39. Elegy Vii 1/13/2003
40. Elegy Viii: The Comparison 1/13/2003
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,

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