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— William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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The Funeral

24 lines
John Donne·1572–1631
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hoever comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,For 'tis my outward Soul,Viceroy to that which then to heaven being goneWill leave this to controlAnd keep these limbs, her Provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every partCan tie those parts, and make me one of all,These hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do't; except she meant that IBy this should know my pain,As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemned to die. Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me,For since I amLove's martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into others' hands these relics came;As 'twas humilityTo afford to it all that a Soul can do,So 'tis some braveryThat since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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