Analysis of On The Progress Of The Soul...
John Donne 1572 (London) – 1631 (London)
Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
She, that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd
Star-light enough t' have made the South control,
(Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;
She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,
What fragmentary rubbish this world is
Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
Which brings a taper to the outward room,
Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight;
For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
And think those broken and soft notes to be
Division, and thy happiest harmony.
Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,
And think that but unbinding of a pack,
To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.
Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;
Anger thine ague more, by calling it
Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.
Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,
But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,
So this to the Triumphant Church calls thee.
Think Satan's sergeants round about thee be,
And think that but for legacies they thrust;
Give one thy pride, to'another give thy lust;
Give them those sins which they gave thee before,
And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.
Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they
Weep but because they go not yet thy way.
Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,
That they confess much in the world amiss,
Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that
Which they from God and angels cover not.
Think that they shroud thee up, and think from thence
They reinvest thee in white innocence.
Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,
Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)
Think thee a prince, who of themselves create
Worms, which insensibly devour their state.
Think that they bury thee, and think that rite
Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.
....
Scheme | AABCDEFFGGHIJJAAKKLLMMNOPPQQRFSSTUVFWWXXYYAAZZ1 2 PPGGAA3 3 GG4 4 TT5 6 1 2 JJKKXX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0111010101 1111111101 1101101111 1111110101 1111111111 1111011111 11111010111 1111011101 0111110101 1111110101 1111011101 111010 0111011111 1111110101 1111010100 1101011100 11010101101 110111010 1111111101 111110101 1101010111 1101010111 1111101111 0111011111 1101111101 1110111101 1111010010 110010101010 111101001 111101111 11011110101 1111011101 11111111111 110010111 1101111101 111111111 1111111101 1101010101 11110101001 0101110111 11010110101 11111101 0111001111 01001100100 1111111101 01111101 1111011111 11111100 101111101 111010101 11111110111 1111111101 1110010111 111010111 0111110011 11111010111 1111111101 0111010011111 1111010111 1101111111 1111110101 1101100101 1111011111 1111010101 1111110111 101101100 1111010111 1101011111 1101110101 11101011 1111010111 111110111 1 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,390 |
Words | 589 |
Sentences | 22 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 73 |
Lines Amount | 73 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 2,503 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 588 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 13, 2023
- 3:02 min read
- 107 Views
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"On The Progress Of The Soul..." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/22563/on-the-progress-of-the-soul...>.
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