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Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

John Donne

More than kisses, letters mingle souls.
JOHN DONNE

Kiss Letter Soul
And what is so intricate, so entangling as death? Who ever got out of a winding sheet?
JOHN DONNE

Death Delicate Escape Wind
I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in, and invite God, and his Angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his Angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.
JOHN DONNE

Angel Animal God Invitation Myself Noise Sound
Death is an ascension to a better library.
JOHN DONNE

Better Death Library
I shall not live ’till I see God; and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.
JOHN DONNE

Death God Live Myself See
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
JOHN DONNE

Love Season Time
Only our love hath no decay; this, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, running it never runs from us away, but truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
JOHN DONNE

Love Ourselves Run True
If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
JOHN DONNE

Beautiful Desire Dreams Myself See
We give each other a smile with a future in it.
JOHN DONNE

Each Other Future One Liner
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love.
JOHN DONNE

God Hold Kiss Love Myself Romance Sex Tongue Yourself
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
JOHN DONNE

Autumn Face Myself See Spring Summer
No man is an island unto himself.
JOHN DONNE

Himself Island Man
If I dream I have you, I have you, for all our joys are but fantastical.
JOHN DONNE

Dreams Fantasy God Joy Myself Relationship
I sing the progress of a deathless soul.
JOHN DONNE

Death Myself One Liner Progress Sing Soul
Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
JOHN DONNE

Despair Heaven Hell Joy
Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were.
JOHN DONNE

Art Build Creation Poetry

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

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Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?

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