Core: noun, the most important part of a thing, the essence; from the Latin cor, meaning heart.

Click for Front Page of Current Issue (Home)

 Volume 1.20 This View’s Poetry June 24, 2002 

    The good-morrow.    

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov’d? were we not wean’d till then?
But suck’d on countrey pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?
T’was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir’d, and got, t’was but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face is thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we finde two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.

    John Donne (1572-1631)    

from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) pp. 48f
ed. C. A. Patrides


    The Sunne Rising.    

        Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
        Why dost thou thus
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
        Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
        Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
    Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
    Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.

        Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
        Why shouldst thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them-with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
        If her eyes have not blinded thine,
        Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
    Whether both the’India’s of spice and Myne
    Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

        She’is all States, and all Princes, I,
        Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar’d to this,
All honor’s mimique; All wealth alchimie.
        Thou sunne art halfe as happy’as wee,
        In that the world’s contracted thus;
    Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
    To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

    John Donne (1572-1631)    

from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) pp. 53f
ed. C. A. Patrides



Sweetest love, I do not goe,
    For wearinesse of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
    A fitter Love for mee;
        But since that I
Must dye at last, ’tis best,
To use my selfe in jest
    Thus by fain’d deaths to dye;

Yesternight the Sunne went hence,
    And yet is here to day,
He hath no desire nor sense,
    Nor halfe so short a way:
        Then feare not mee,
But beleeve that I shall make
Speedier journeyes, since I take
    More wings and spurres than hee.

O how feeble is mans power,
    That if good fortune fall,
Cannot adde another houre,
    Nor a lost houre recall!
        But come bad chance,
And wee joyne to’it our strength,
And wee teach it art and length,
It selfe o’r us to’advance.

When thou sigh’st, thou sigh’st not winde,
    But sigh’st my soule away,
When thou weep’st, unkindly kinde,
    My lifes blood doth decay.
        It cannot bee
That thou lov’st mee, as thou say’st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
    That art the best of mee.

Let not thy divining heart
    Forethinke me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
    And may thy feares fulfill;
        But thinke that wee
Are but turn’d aside to sleepe;
They who one another keepe
    Alive, ne’r parted bee.

    John Donne (1572-1631)    
    from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) pp. 62f
ed. C. A. Patrides

    From the Silence of Time, Time’s Silence borrow.
In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow.
The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow.
    William Sharp (1856-1902)    
    Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse p. 400    

 Volume 1.20 This View’s Poetry June 24, 2002 

The View from the Core, and all original material, © E. L. Core 2002. All rights reserved.

Cor ad cor loquitur J. H. Newman — “Heart speaks to heart”