John Donne(1572–1631)
Sonnet 7
A t t h e r o u n d earth's i m a g i n e d c o r n e r s , b l o w
Your t r u m p e t s , angels;5 a n d arise, arise
F r o m d e a t h , y o u n u m b e r l e s s infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go;
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, 6 o'erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, 0 age, agues, 0 tyrannies,famine Ifevers
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. 7
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;
For, if above all these, my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask a b u n d a n c e of thy g r a c e
W h e n w e are there. H e r e o n this lowly g r o u n d ,
T e a c h m e h o w t o repent; for that's a s g o o d
A s i f t h o u ' h a d s t s e a l e d m y p a r d o n w i t h thy b l o o d .