The Funeral (Donne)

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WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,
⁠Nor question much,
That 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 gone,
⁠Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
⁠Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
⁠Have from a better brain,
Can better do 't; except she meant that I
⁠By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,
⁠For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came.
⁠As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
⁠So 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

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