John Donne

(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631 / London, England)

John Donne Poems

161. The Paradox 1/3/2003
162. The Primrose 1/13/2003
163. The Prohibition 1/3/2003
164. The Relic 5/14/2001
165. The Soule 10/21/2014
166. The Sun Rising 5/14/2001
167. The Token 1/1/2004
168. The Triple Fool 1/13/2003
169. The Undertaking 1/3/2003
170. The Will 4/9/2010
171. To George Herbert, 4/9/2010
172. To His Mistress Going To Bed 5/14/2001
173. To Mr. I. P. 4/9/2010
174. To Mr. Rowland Woodward 4/9/2010
175. To Mr. Samuel Brooke 4/9/2010
176. To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders 4/9/2010
177. To Mr.I.L. 4/9/2010
178. To Mr.T.W. 4/9/2010
179. To Sir Henry Goodyere 4/9/2010
180. To Sir Henry Wotton 4/9/2010
181. To Sir Henry Wotton At His Going Ambassador To Venice 4/9/2010
182. To Sir Henry Wotton Ii 4/9/2010
183. To The Countess Of Bedford I 4/9/2010
184. To The Countess Of Bedford Ii 4/9/2010
185. To The Earl Of Doncaster 4/9/2010
186. To The Lady Magdalen Herbert, Of St. Mary Magdalen 4/9/2010
187. To The Praise Of The Dead And The Anatomy 4/9/2010
188. Translated Out Of Gazaeus, 4/9/2010
189. Twickenham Garden 4/9/2010
190. Upon The Translation Of The Psalms By Sir Philip Sidney And The Countess Of Pembroke, His Sister 4/9/2010
191. Valediction To His Book 4/9/2010
192. Witchcraft By A Picture 1/13/2003
193. Woman's Constancy 1/3/2003
Best Poem of John Donne

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

Read the full of No Man Is An Island

Holy Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

[Hata Bildir]