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Holy Sonnet VIII: If Faithfull Soules

If faithfull soules be alike glorifi'd
As Angels, then my fathers soul doth see,
And adds this even to full felecitie,
That valiantly I hels wide mouth o'stride:
But if our mindes to these soules be descry'd
By circumstances, and by signes that be
Apparent in us, not immediately,
How shall my mindes white truth by them be try'd?
They see idolatrous lovers weepe and mourne,
And vile blasphemous Conjurers to call
On Jesus name, and Pharisaicall
Dissemblers feigne devotion. Then turne
O pensive soule, to God, for he knows best
Thy true griefe, for he put it in my breast.

poem by John Donne
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Holy Sonnet VIII: If Faithful Souls Be Alike Glorified

If faithful souls be alike glorified
As angels, then my fathers soul doth see,
And adds this even to full felicity,
That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:
But if our minds to these souls be descried
By circumstances, and by signs that be
Apparent in us, not immediately,
How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?
They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
And vile blasphemous conjurers to call
On Jesus name, and Pharisaical
Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn,
O pensive soul, to God, for he knows best
Thy true grief, for he put it in my breast.

poem by John Donne
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Holy Sonnet 8

If faithful souls be alike glorified
As angels, then my father's soul doth see,
And adds this even to full felicity,
That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride.
But if our minds to these souls be descried
By circumstances, and by signs that be
Apparent in us not immediately,
How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?
They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
And stile blasphemous conjurers to call
On Jesu's name, and pharisaical
Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn,
O pensive soul, to God, for He knows best
Thy grief, for He put it into my breast.

poem by John Donne from Holy Sonnets
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motions, lose their owne
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their natural! forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is's, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare ['almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for meet
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once, peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and to'our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Make curt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparel!, rag'd, and tome?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth shine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore shine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

poem by John Donne
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Lucasta Paying Her Obsequies To The Chast Memory Of My Dearest Cosin Mrs. Bowes Barne[s]

I.
See! what an undisturbed teare
She weepes for her last sleepe;
But, viewing her, straight wak'd a Star,
She weepes that she did weepe.

II.
Griefe ne're before did tyranize
On th' honour of that brow,
And at the wheeles of her brave eyes
Was captive led til now.

III.
Thus, for a saints apostacy
The unimagin'd woes
And sorrowes of the Hierarchy
None but an angel knowes.

IV.
Thus, for lost soules recovery
The clapping of all wings
And triumphs of this victory
None but an angel sings.

V.
So none but she knows to bemone
This equal virgins fate,
None but LUCASTA can her crowne
Of glory celebrate.

VI.
Then dart on me (CHAST LIGHT) one ray,
By which I may discry
Thy joy cleare through this cloudy day
To dresse my sorrow by.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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On John Dawson, Butler Of C.C.

Dawson the Butler's dead: Although I think
Poets were ne'er infusde with single drinke
Ile spend a farthing muse; some watry verse
Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse;
If any cannot weepe amongst us here
Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a tear:
Weepe, O his cheeses, weepe till yee bee good,
Yee that are dry or in the sun have stood;
In mossy coats und rusty liveries mourne,
Untill like him to ashes you shall turne:
Weep, O ye barrells, lett your drippings fall
In trickling streams: make waste more prodigal
Than when our drinke is badde, that John may flote
To Styx in beere, and lift upp Charon's boate
With wholesome waves. And as our conduits run
With clarett at a Coronation,
So lett our channells flow with single tiffe,
For John, I hope, is crownde: take off your whiffe,
Yee men of Rosemary: Now drinke off all,
Remembring 'tis a Butler's funeral:
Had he bin master of good double beere,
My life for his, John Dawson had beene here.

poem by William Strode
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The Harbinger

to the Progresse.

TWo soules moue here, and mine (a third) must moue
Paces of admiration, and of loue;
Thy soule (Deare Virgin) whose this tribute is,
Mou'd from this mortall sphere to liuely blisse,
And yet moues still, and still aspires to see
The worlds last day, thy glories full degree:
Like as those starres which thou ore-lookest farre,
Are in their place, and yet still moued are
No soule (whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee halfe way;
Or see thy flight; which doth our thoughts outgoe
So fast, that now the lightning moues but slow:
But now thou art as high in heauen flowne
As heau'ns from vs; what soule besides thine owne
Can tell thy ioyes, or say he can relate
Thy glorious Iornals in that blessed state?
I enuie thee (Rich soule) I enuy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:
And thou (Great spirit) which her's follow'd hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So farre as none can follow thine so farre,
(And if this flesh did not the passage barre
Had'st caught her) let me wonder at thy flight
Which long agone had'st lost the vulgar sight
And now mak'st proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee les'ned in thine aery way;
So while thou mak'st her soule by progresse knowne
Thou mak'st a noble progresse of thine owne.
From this worlds carcasse hauing mounted hie
To that pure life of Immortalitie;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselues so raise
That more may not beseeme a creatures praise,
Yet still thou vow'st her more; and euery yeare
Mak'st a new Progresse, while thou wandrest here;
Still vpward mount; and let thy makers praise
Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.
And since thy Mus[es] head in heauen shrouds
Oh let her neuer stoope below the clouds:
And if those glorious sainted soules may know
Or what we doe, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best
Which praise those awfull powers that make them blest.

poem by John Donne
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On A Dissembler

Could any shewe where Plynyes people dwell
Whose head stands in their breast; who cannot tell
A smoothing lye because their open hart
And lippes are joyn'd so neare, I would depart
As quick as thought, and there forgett the wrongs
Which I have suffer'd by deceitfull tongues.
I should depart where soules departed bee,
Who being freed from cloudy flesh, can see
Each other so immediately, so cleare
That none needs tongue to speak, nor ears to hear.
Were tongues intended to express the soule,
And can wee better doe't with none at all?
Were words first made our meaning to reveale,
And are they usde our meaning to conceale?
The ayre by which wee see, will that turne fogg?
Our breath turne mist? Will that become a clogg
That should unload the mynde? Fall we upon
Another Babell's sub-confusion?
And in the self-same language must wee finde
A diverse faction of the words and minde?
Dull as I am, that hugg'd such emptie ayre,
And never mark't the deede (a phrase more faire,
More trusty and univocall): joyne well
Three or foure actions, we may quickly spell
A hollow hart: if those no light can lend
Read the whole sentence, and observe the end:
I will not wayte so long: the guilded man
On whom I ground my speech, no longer can
Delude my sense; nor can the gracefull arte
Of kind dissembling button upp his hart.
His well-spoke wrongs are such as hurtfull words
Writt in a comely hand; or bloody swords
Sheath'd upp in velvett; if hee draw on mee
My armour proofe is incredulity.

poem by William Strode
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Oh my blacke Soule! now thou art summoned

Oh my black Soule! Now thou art summoned
By sicknesse, deaths herald, and champion;
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turne to whence hee is fled,
Or like a thiefe, which till deaths doome be read,
Wisheth himselfe deliverd from prison;
But damn'd and hal'd to execution,
Wisheth that sill he might be imprisioned;
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lacke;
But who shall give thee that grace to beginne?
Oh make thy selfe with holy mourning blacke;
And red with blushing, as thou art with sinne;
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might
That being red, it dyes red soules to white.

poem by John Donne
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To Althea From Prison.

I.
When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine ALTHEA brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lye tangled in her haire,
And fetterd to her eye,
The birds, that wanton in the aire,
Know no such liberty.

II.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying THAMES,
Our carelesse heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.

III.
When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetnes, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King.
When I shall voyce aloud, how good
He is, how great should be,
Inlarged winds, that curle the flood,
Know no such liberty.

IV.
Stone walls doe not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Mindes innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedome in my love,
And in my soule am free,
Angels alone that sore above
Enjoy such liberty.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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A Song On A Sigh

O tell mee, tell, thou god of wynde,
In all thy cavernes canst thou finde
A vapor, fume, a gale or blast
Like to a sigh which love doth cast?
Can any whirlwynde in thy vault
Plough upp earth's breast with like assault?
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

If thou be wynde, O then refrayne
From wracking whiles I thus complayne:
If thou be wynde then light thou art,
Yet O! how heavy is my hart!
If thou be wynde then purge thy way,
Lett cares that clogge thy force obey.
Goe wynde and blow thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Those blasts of sighing raised are
By influence of my bright starre;
Their Æolus from whom they came
Is love that straynes to blow his flame,
The powerfull sway of whose behest
Makes hearth and bellowes of my breast.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Know 'tis a wynde that longs to blowe
Upon my Saint wherere shee goe,
And stealing through her fanne it beares
Soft errands to her lippes and eares,
And then perhapps a passage makes
Downe to her heart when breath shee takes.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Yes, gentle gale, trye that againe,
O doe not passe from mee in vayne,
Goe mingle with her soule divine
Ingendring spiritts like to mine:
Yea take my soule along with thee
To worke a stronger sympathie:
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

My soule, before my grosser part,
Thus to her heaven should departe,
And where the body cannott lye
On wings of wynde my soule shall flye:
If not one soule our bodies joyne,
One body shall our soules confine,
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

poem by William Strode
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A Song On The Baths

What Angel stirrs this happy Well,
Some Muse from thence come shew't me,
One of those naked Graces tell
That Angels are for beauty:
The Lame themselves that enter here
Come Angels out againe,
And Bodies turne to Soules all cleere,
All made for joy, noe payne.

Heate never was so sweetely mett
With moist as in this shower:
Old men are borne anew by swett
Of its restoring pow'r:
When crippl'd joynts we suppl'd see,
And second lives new come,
Who can deny this Font to be
The Bodies Christendome?

One Bath so fiery is you'l thinke
The Water is all Spirit,
Whose quick'ning streames are like the drink
Whereby we Life inheritt:
The second Poole of middle straine
Can wive Virginity,
Tempting the blood to such a vayne
One sexe is He and She.

The third where horses plunge may bring
A Pegasus to reare us,
And call for pens from Bladud's wing
For legging those that beare us.
Why should Physitians thither fly
Where Waters med'cines be,
Physitians come to cure thereby,
And are more cur'd than we

poem by William Strode
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To His Deare Brother Colonel F. L. Immoderately Mourning My

I.
If teares could wash the ill away,
A pearle for each wet bead I'd pay;
But as dew'd corne the fuller growes,
So water'd eyes but swell our woes.

II.
One drop another cals, which still
(Griefe adding fuell) doth distill;
Too fruitfull of her selfe is anguish,
We need no cherishing to languish.

III.
Coward fate degen'rate man
Like little children uses, when
He whips us first, untill we weepe,
Then, 'cause we still a weeping keepe.

IV.
Then from thy firme selfe never swerve;
Teares fat the griefe that they should sterve;
Iron decrees of destinie
Are ner'e wipe't out with a wet eye.

V.
But this way you may gaine the field,
Oppose but sorrow, and 'twill yield;
One gallant thorough-made resolve
Doth starry influence dissolve.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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To His Deare Brother Colonel F. L. Immoderately Mourning My Brothers Untimely Death At Carmarthen

I.
If teares could wash the ill away,
A pearle for each wet bead I'd pay;
But as dew'd corne the fuller growes,
So water'd eyes but swell our woes.

II.
One drop another cals, which still
(Griefe adding fuell) doth distill;
Too fruitfull of her selfe is anguish,
We need no cherishing to languish.

III.
Coward fate degen'rate man
Like little children uses, when
He whips us first, untill we weepe,
Then, 'cause we still a weeping keepe.

IV.
Then from thy firme selfe never swerve;
Teares fat the griefe that they should sterve;
Iron decrees of destinie
Are ner'e wipe't out with a wet eye.

V.
But this way you may gaine the field,
Oppose but sorrow, and 'twill yield;
One gallant thorough-made resolve
Doth starry influence dissolve.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Sky Full Of Angels

Preacher man talkin' 'bout the end of time
Well, Lord knows I'm ready it don't worry my mind
You see, I ain't 'fraid of nothin' because I believe
I got a sky full of angels watchin' over me
You can take my possessions
You can take all my gold
Nobody but Jesus gonna take my soul
Walk through darkness I don't need no light
My faith in Jesus gonna be my guide
You see, I ain't 'fraid of nothin' because I believe
I got a sky full of angels watchin' over me
You can take me for granted
You can take all my gold
Nobody but Jesus gonna take my soul
River's risin' but I've got no doubt
My sweet Saviour's gonna pull me out
You see, I ain't 'fraid of nothin' because I believe
I got a sky full of angels watchin' over me
You can take my possessions
You can take all my gold
Nobody but Jesus gonna take my soul
I ain't 'fraid of nothin' because I believe
I got a sky full of angels watchin' over me
I ain't 'fraid of nothin' because I believe
I got a sky full of angels watchin' over me

song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Truth Is Wealth

Truth is power, truth is true wealth,
Truth is unequalled ultimate strength,
Truth makes soul its own king
And makes the angels in heaven sing,
Truth is joy, truth is sunshine,
Truth is heart's pristine sheen.

Truth is true friend if we side with it,
And the deadliest foe while stand against it,
Truth strikes terror in law-breakers' heart
And shakes those hearts that go short of it,
For truth is all, truth is tall,
No noble soul ever refrains from its call.

Truth is might, truth is true light,
Truth is the path always is right.

poem by Pratheek Praveen
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Sonnet VIII

MOre then most faire, full of the liuing fire,
Kindled aboue vnto the maker neere:
no eies buy ioyes, in which al powers conspire,
that to the world naught else be counted deare.
Thrugh your bright beams doth not ye blinded guest,
shoot out his darts to base affections wound:
but Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest
in chast desires on heauenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts and fashion me within,
you stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake,
you calme the storme that passion did begin,
stro[n]g thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak.
Dark is the world, where your light shined neuer;
well is he borne, that may behold you euer.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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In Commendation Of Musick

When whispering straynes doe softly steale
With creeping passion through the hart,
And when at every touch wee feele
Our pulses beate and beare a part;
When thredds can make
A hartstring shake
Philosophie
Can scarce deny
The soule consists of harmony.

When unto heavenly joy wee feyne
Whatere the soule affecteth most,
Which onely thus wee can explayne
By musick of the winged hoast,
Whose layes wee think
Make starres to winke,
Philosophie
Can scarce deny
Our soules consist of harmony.

O lull mee, lull mee, charming ayre,
My senses rock with wonder sweete;
Like snowe on wooll thy fallings are,
Soft, like a spiritts, are thy feete:
Greife who need feare
That hath an eare?
Down lett him lye
And slumbring dye,
And change his soule for harmony.

poem by William Strode
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On The Death Of Mrs. Mary Neudham

As sinn makes gross the soule and thickens it
To fleshy dulness, so the spotless white
Of virgin pureness made thy flesh as cleere
As others soules: thou couldst not tarry heere
All soule in both parts: and what could it bee
The Resurrection could bestow on thee,
Allready glorious? thine Innocence
(Thy better shroude) sent thee as pure from hence
As saints shall rise: but hee whose bounty may
Enlighten the greate sunn with double day,
And make it more outshine itselfe than now
It can the moone, shall crowne thy varnish'd brow
With light above that sunn: when thou shalt bee
No lower in thy place than Majesty:
Crown'd with a Virgin's wreath, outshining there
The Saints as much as thou did'st mortalls heere.
Bee this thy hope; and whilst thy ashes ly
Asleepe in death, dreame of Eternity.

poem by William Strode
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In Memory of F.P.

If I could ever write a lasting verse,
It should be laid, deare Sainte, upon thy herse.
But Sorrow is no muse, and doth confesse
That it least can what most it would expresse.
Yet, that I may some bounds to griefe allow,
I'le try if I can weepe in numbers now.
Ah beauteous blossom! too untimely dead!
Whither, ah whither is thy sweetness fled?
Where are the charmes that allwayes did arise
From the prevailing languadge [sic] of thine eyes?
Where is thy modest aire and lovely meen,
And all the wonders that in these were seen?
Alas! in vaine! In vaine on three I rave;
There is no pitty in the stupid grave . . .
Never, ah never let glad parents guesse
At one remove of future happinesse,
But reckon children 'mong those passing joys,
Which one hour gives, and the next hour destroyes.
Alas! we were secure of our content,
But find too late that it was onely lent,
To be a mirrour wherein we might see
How fraile we are, how innocent should be.
But if to thy blest soule my griefe appeares,
Forgive and pitty these injurious teares;
Impute them to affection's sad excesse,
Which will not yeild to nature's tendernesse,
Since 'twas through dearest tyes and highest trust
Continu'd from thy cradle to thy dust;
And so rewarded and confirm'd by thine,
(wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine.
But I'le resigne, and follow thee as fast
As my unhappy minutes will make hast.
Till when, the fresh remembrances of thee
Shall be my emblem of mortalitie.
For such a loss as thine, bright soule, is not
Ever to be repaired, or forgot.

poem by Katherine Philips
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The Statue Maker

The death angels came to take a soul,
But the whole game appeared to be foul.
Thirteen alike persons standing in queue,
The real one they wanted, there’s no clue.

Angels confused, whose soul they’ll take;
‘God’ will never forgive, if they mistake.
In fact, the skilled and clever statue maker,
Could carve one’s sculpture, truly similar.

The carver was very confident of his art;
‘Why should not use it for me’, he thought.
He had made twelve statues alike to him,
Virtually, he put his soul, in making them.

Statues were so perfect, looked like alive;
Though breathless but none could realise.
When came to take his soul, angels of death;
He stood amongst those, stopping his breath.

Angels couldn’t identify him; returned in vain.
Reaching the god, full story they explained.
‘Single such person made, records ascertain’,
The angry ‘God’ told, and sent them again.

This time the angels came, a plan prepared;
Watching statues carefully, they murmured-
‘Wav! an excellent work, but done a mistake! ’
Listening such comment, he shook like quake

Stunned statue maker, immediately did react
And surprisingly yelled! , ‘where is the mistake? ’
Where the mistake was, angels understood,
Soul of the great carver, very easily they took.

- S.D.Tiwari

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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