Donne

Good Morrow, by John Donne

I wonder, by my truth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved

[...]

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.

[...]

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp North, without declining West?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one; or thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

I don't know why it is.  I can't quite put my finger on it, as it is one of those things that always wiggles just beyon my reach:  I love the poetry, the words, of John Donne.

Yes, they're almost clunky, dense in imagery, old-fashioned in scheme and structure, and I don't always understand what it is he's conveying - but, like music, they bypass my mind for my heart.

I am undone by Donne.