Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikThe Funeral by John Donnne
August 8th 2008 05:22
The Funeral
by John Donne
by John Donne
Poet John Donne
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward Soul,
Viceroy to that which then to heaven being gone
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her Provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
These hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do't; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemned to die.
Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into others' hands these relics came;
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a Soul can do,
So 'tis some bravery
That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
Review in Poem by Dexter
Unrequited love, rejection of the purest affection,
The fragile heart, unguarded.
The Confidence shattered, the ego scared,
Painful yearning shattered.
Invested passion no more,
Replaced by obsessive pursuit.
A relationship that’s run its course,
Now calls the morgue its nest.
Gentle times forgotten,
Conflict elevated in the memory.
A broken heart reacts with sorrow,
Rage and fear drive repelled emotion.
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