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Poem by John Donne
WHEN my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, ЧFor graves have learn'd that woman-head, To be to more than one a bedЧ And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will he not let us alone, 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 land, Where mass-devotion doth command, Then he that digs us up will bring Us to the bishop or the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something 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 faithfully, Yet knew not what we loved, nor why; Difference of sex we never knew, No more than guardian angels do; Coming and going we 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.
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