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

Comments about John Donne

  • askliterature.com (1/14/2019 4:47:00 AM)

    No match for John Donne
    Read more about him at:
    http: //www.askliterature.com/john-donne/

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
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  • Sumana kanjilal (11/1/2018 1:19:00 AM)

    ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿ‘

  • 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 Elenaโ€™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 Daisyโ€™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 (1779โ€“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.
    ...

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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