Sunday Sonnet.

If you do not comprehend that the spirit of any age is driven by the forces fallen from heaven, and that this spirit is jealous, you will not comprehend Donne.

Or the need for the cross.

The modern lexicographers and sophists, calling themselves falsely philosophers, put too much store on reason. It is a weak reed.

The spirit of God will consume it as a bushfire eats through tinder and stubble.

Holy Sonnet, 14

Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.