John Donne was an English poet, satirist, lawyer, and preacher in the Church of England during the Jacobean era. John Donne was born January 22, 1572 in London, died on March 31, 1631. He is recognized as one of the foremost figures of the Metaphysical poets, a group known for their complex and intellectually challenging poetry, characterized by witty conceits, paradoxes, and a blend of emotion and reason. Donne’s life was marked by periods of both worldly success and deep personal turmoil, and his literary career reflected these fluctuations.
John Donne was born into a Roman Catholic family in London, at a time when Catholicism was illegal in England. His father was a wealthy ironmonger, and his mother came from a prominent recusant Catholic family. Donne’s early education was rigorous. He attended Hart Hall, now part of Oxford University, at the age of 11, and later studied at Cambridge University. However, because of his Catholic background, he was not able to take a degree at either institution, as he refused to take the Oath of Supremacy required by Protestant England.
Afterward, he studied law at Lincoln’s Inn, preparing for a career in diplomacy or government, and pursued theological studies as well.
During Donne’s youth, England was hostile toward Catholics, and this had a profound impact on his life. His brother Henry was arrested for harboring a Catholic priest and died in prison, which likely deepened Donne’s complex relationship with religion. Donne himself later converted to Anglicanism.
In his early adulthood, Donne led a somewhat hedonistic lifestyle, participating in London’s courtly and literary circles. His early works, such as Satires and Elegies, were bold, often erotic, and showed a rebellious spirit. These writings, though later viewed as some of his best, did not immediately lead to career success.
In 1601, Donne secretly married Anne More, the niece of his employer, Sir Thomas Egerton. This led to a major scandal, resulting in Donne’s imprisonment and dismissal from his job. Donne’s marriage, though eventually reconciled with Anne’s family, caused long-term financial difficulties and delayed his career ambitions. However, his marriage to Anne was happy, and she bore him twelve children, though several died young.
During this time, Donne struggled to support his growing family. His poems from this period often reflect his personal and emotional struggles, including the famous Songs and Sonnets, which blend sensuality and spiritual meditation.
Donne eventually entered the service of the Anglican Church at the urging of King James I, who recognized his intellectual talents. In 1615, Donne was ordained as a priest, despite earlier ambivalence toward the Church. He later became Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, one of the highest positions in the Church of England.
Donne’s later writings were deeply spiritual, marked by his concern with mortality and divine judgment. His Holy Sonnets, especially poems like Death Be Not Proud and Batter My Heart, Three-Person’d God, reflect his grappling with sin, redemption, and the afterlife.
In his later years, Donne also became a prominent preacher, known for his eloquent and moving sermons. His famous Meditation XVII, which contains the line “No man is an island”, exemplifies his belief in the interconnectedness of humanity and the divine.
His final years were spent in intense religious reflection, as illness and the deaths of several of his children weighed heavily on him. His final sermon, Death’s Duel, preached just before his death, is often considered his own funeral sermon.
John Donne’s poetry rests on his ability to combine intellectual depth with emotional power in his poetry and prose. His work had a lasting influence on English literature, particularly his metaphysical poetry, which was rediscovered and appreciated by later poets, including Eliot and Yeats. His exploration of love, death, faith, and doubt continues to resonate with readers.
Out of a fired ship, which by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame, Some men leap’d forth, and ever as they came Near the foes’ ships, did by their shot decay; So all were lost, which in the ship were found, They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt … Read more
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead And that thou think’st thee free From all solicitation from me, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see; Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before, Will, … Read more
Some that have deeper digg’d love’s mine than I, Say, where his centric happiness doth lie; I have lov’d, and got, and told, But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, I should not find that hidden mystery. Oh, ’tis imposture all! And as no chemic yet th’elixir got, But glorifies his pregnant … Read more
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den? ’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but … Read more
Stand still, and I will read to thee A lecture, love, in love’s philosophy. These three hours that we have spent, Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we ourselves produc’d. But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduc’d. … Read more
Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks. There will the river whispering run Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun; And there the ‘enamour’d fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou … Read more
‘Tis true, ‘tis day, what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because ‘tis light? Did we lie down because ‘twas night? Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If … Read more
Now thou has loved me one whole day, Tomorrow when you leav’st, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow? Or say that now We are not just those persons which we were? Or, that oaths made in reverential fear Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear? Or, as true deaths … Read more
I can love both fair and brown, Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays, Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays, Her whom the country formed, and whom the town, Her who believes, and her who tries, Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, And her who is dry … Read more
I’ll tell thee now (dear Love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us, How I shall stay, though she esloygne me thus And how posterity shall know it too; How thine may out-endure Sybil’s glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan is not … Read more
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost, Who died before the god of love was born. I cannot think that he, who then lov’d most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produc’d a destiny, And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, I must love her, … Read more
Dear love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy, Therefore thou wak’d’st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories; … Read more
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For ’tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. … Read more
Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season … Read more
I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry; But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I, If she would not deny? Then as th’ earth’s inward narrow crooked lanes Do purge sea water’s fretful salt away, I thought, if I could draw my pains Through rhyme’s vexation, … Read more
If yet I have not all thy love, Dear, I shall never have it all; I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move, Nor can intreat one other tear to fall; And all my treasure, which should purchase thee— Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters—I have spent. Yet no more can be due to me, … Read more
Our storm is past, and that storm’s tyrannous rage, A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth ‘suage. The fable is inverted, and far more A block afflicts, now, than a stork before. Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us; In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. As steady’as I can wish … Read more
Where, like a pillow on a bed A pregnant bank swell’d up to rest The violet’s reclining head, Sat we two, one another’s best. Our hands were firmly cemented With a fast balm, which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string; So to’intergraft our hands, as yet … Read more
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king’s real, or his stampèd … Read more