Elegy V: His Picture

By John Donne 1572–1631 John Donne

Here take my picture; though I bid farewell

Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.

'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more

When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.

When weather-beaten I come back, my hand

Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann'd,

My face and breast of haircloth, and my head

With care's rash sudden storms being o'erspread,

My body'a sack of bones, broken within,

And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin;

If rival fools tax thee to'have lov'd a man

So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then,

This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say,

"Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?

Or do they reach his judging mind, that he

Should now love less, what he did love to see?

That which in him was fair and delicate,

Was but the milk which in love's childish state

Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough

To feed on that, which to disus'd tastes seems tough."

Biography

John Donne's standing as a great English poet, and one of the greatest writers of English prose, is now assured. However, it has been confirmed only in the present century. The history of Donne's reputation is the most remarkable of any major writer in English; no other body of great poetry has fallen so far from favor for so long and been generally condemned as inept and crude. In Donne's own day his poetry was highly prized . . .

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