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Holy Sonnet VII |
作者Author /  John Donne 約翰.唐恩 |
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Holy Sonnet VII
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At
the round earth's imagined corners,
blow
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Your
trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
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From
death, you
numberless infinities
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Of souls, and to you scattered
bodies go;
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All
whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow,
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All
whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
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Despair,
low, chance hath slain, and
you whose eyes
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Shall
behold god, and never
taste death's woe.
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But
let them
sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;
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For,
if above all these, my sins
abound,
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‘Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace
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When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,
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Teach
me how to repent; for that's
as good
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As
if Thou
hadst sealed
my pardon with Thy blood.
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