I just read a rich appreciation of John Donne, recently published in the New York Times. Of Donne all I know is his poem The Flea, but, oh, what a poem that is.
The author cites Donne for reminding us all, in this world where we all must cease to exist, sometimes on little or no notice, to keep a keen eye on everything that crosses our senses and inspires wonder, or any deep feeling. I found this couplet profound:
“Nothing but man, of all envenomed things,/Doth work upon itself with inborn stings.”