JOHN DONNE
But O alas, so long, so far
Our bodies why do we forbear^ They are ours, though they are not we, We are
The intelligences, they the sphere. We owe them thanks, because they thus,
Did us, to us, at first convey, Yielded their forces, sense, to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay. On man heavens influence works not so,
But that it first imprints the air, So soul into the soul may flow,
Though it to body first repair. As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like souls as it can, Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot, which makes us man: So must pure lovers' souls descend
T' affections, and to faculties, Which sense may icach and apprehend,
Else a great Prince in prison lies. To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love revealed may look; Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book. And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change, when we are to bodies gone.
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