The Funeral

by John Donne

　　 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.