John Donne

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

John Donne Poems

161. Holy Sonnet Xiv: Batter My Heart 1/3/2003
162. A Valediction: Of Weeping 1/3/2003
163. Woman's Constancy 1/3/2003
164. Holy Sonnet I: Thou Hast Made Me 1/3/2003
165. Break Of Day 1/3/2003
166. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day 5/14/2001
167. Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud 1/3/2003
168. An Anatomy Of The World... 5/14/2001
169. The Broken Heart 1/3/2003
170. Elegy Xix: To His Mistress Going To Bed 1/3/2003
171. At The Round Earth's Imagin'D Corners 1/20/2003
172. Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go 12/31/2002
173. A Hymn To Christ At The Author's Last Going Into Germany 1/13/2003
174. Daybreak 1/4/2003
175. A Lecture Upon The Shadow 5/14/2001
176. A Valediction Of Weeping 5/14/2001
177. The Flea 1/3/2003
178. A Fever 1/3/2003
179. A Burnt Ship 1/1/2004
180. A Lame Beggar 1/3/2003
181. Good Morrow 1/3/2003
182. Go And Catch A Falling Star 12/31/2002
183. Confined Love 1/13/2003
184. Air And Angels 1/3/2003
185. The Sun Rising 5/14/2001
186. A Hymn To God The Father 5/14/2001
187. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning 5/14/2001
188. For Whom The Bell Tolls 12/31/2002
189. Death Be Not Proud 5/14/2001
190. No Man Is An Island 1/3/2003
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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