I.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

And do run still, though still I do deplore?

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

For I have more.

II.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won

Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun

A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

For I have more.

III.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;

But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son

Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;

And having done that, Thou hast done ;

I fear no more.

“A Hymn to God the Father,” by John Donne

From fairest creatures we desire increase

That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 1

“Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward” by John Donne

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 motion, lose their owne,

And being by others hurried every day,

Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:

Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit

For their first mover, and are whirld by it.

Hence is’t, 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. Continue reading Let Man’s Soul Be a Sphere →

Franks links to a new poem by a Polish poet on reading what she wrote as a teenager.

LET me thy properties explain:

A rotten cabin dropping rain:

Chimneys, with scorn rejecting smoke;

Stools, tables, chairs, and bedsteads broke.

Here elements have lost their uses,

Air ripens not, nor earth produces:

In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,

Fire will not roast, nor water boil.

Through all the valleys, hills, and plains,

The Goddess Want, in triumph reigns:

And her chief officers of state,

Sloth, Dirt, and Theft, around her wait.

“On An Ill-Managed House” By Jonathan Swift