William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
Christopher Hassall
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
John Donne
This poem is a Petrarchan sonnet — for more information see below — and begins with the end; the apocalypse. It starts with a single sentence swirling in energy, disorder and calamity. The dead rise and the trumpet sounds. But the poem resolves in quiet repentance and prayer, as it should, accordin...
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;
For, if above all these, my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,
When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent; for that's as good
As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon with thy blood.