by John Donne
my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to
—For graves have learn'd that
To be to more than one a bed—
And he that
digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls at the last busy day
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?
If this fall in a time, or
Where mass-devotion doth
Then he that digs us up will
Us to the bishop or the king,
To make us
relics ; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
else thereby ;
All women shall adore us, and some men.
And, since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.
First we loved well and
Yet knew not what we loved,
nor why ;
Difference of sex we never
No more than guardian angels
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals ;
Our hands ne'er
touch'd the seals,
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free.
These miracles we did ; but now alas !
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 66-67.