Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harme <br />Nor question much <br />That subtile wreath of haire, which crowns my arme; <br />The mystery, the signe you must not touch, <br />For'tis my outward Soule, <br />Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, <br />Will leave this to controule, <br />And keep these limbes, her Provinces, from dissolution. <br />For if the sinewie thread my braine lets fall <br />Through every part, <br />Can tye those parts, and make mee one of all; <br />These haires which upward grew, and strength and art <br />Have from a better braine, <br />Can better do'it; Except she meant that I <br />By this should know my pain, <br />As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die. <br /> <br />What ere shee meant by'it, bury it with me, <br />For since I am <br />Loves martyr, it might breed idolatrie, <br />If into others hands these Reliques came; <br />As'twas humility <br />To afford to it all that a Soule can doe, <br />So,'tis some bravery, <br />That since you would save none of mee, I bury some of you.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-funerall/
