At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
From death, you numberlesse infinities
Of soules, and to your scattered bodies goe,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God and never taste death's woe.
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to aske abundance of Thy grace,
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground.
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon, with Thy blood.

--John Donne

We are singing a gorgeous arrangement of this sonnet in choir this semester. Hey, I just realized it's a Petrarchan sonnet. How in the world did I remember that? I guess I was just trying to figure out the rhyme scheme: ABBAABBACDCDEE. Yup, Italian sonnet. I am so proud of myself. I am such a big nerd.

I haven't been feeling well today. I need to get a good night's sleep tonight. And my inbox is full at work again. {{sigh}} Okay, I'd better go see if there's a ticket on my windshield...