English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 164. The Funeral |
| | | John Donne (1573–1631) |
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| WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm | |
| Nor question much | |
| That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; | |
| The mystery, the sign you must not touch, | |
| For ’tis my outward soul, | 5 |
| Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone, | |
| Will leave this to control | |
| And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. | |
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| For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall | |
| Through every part | 10 |
| Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; | |
| Those 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, | 15 |
| As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die. | |
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| Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me, | |
| For since I am | |
| Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry | |
| If into other hands these reliques came. | 20 |
| As ’twas humility | |
| T’ afford to it all that a soul can do, | |
| So ’tis some bravery | |
| That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. | |
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