John Donne Poem

The Relic

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When my grave is broke up again
   Some second guest to entertain,
   (For graves have learn’d that woman head,
   To be to more than one a bed)
       And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
       Will he not let’us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

   If this fall in a time, or land,
   Where mis-devotion doth command,
   Then he, that digs us up, will bring
   Us to the bishop, and the king,
       To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
       A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

   First, we lov’d well and faithfully,
   Yet knew not what we lov’d, nor why;
   Difference of sex no more we knew
   Than our guardian angels do;
       Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
       Our hands ne’er touch’d the seals
Which nature, injur’d by late law, sets free;
These miracles we did, but now alas,
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.

The Soule
The Prohibition


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