Poem by John Donne

Temple

With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe,
Joseph, turn back; see where your child doth sit,
Blowing, yea blowing out those sparks of wit,
Which Himself on the doctors did bestow.
The Word but lately could not speak, and lo!
It suddenly speaks wonders; whence comes it,
That all which was, and all which should be writ,
A shallow seeming child should deeply know?
His Godhead was not soul to His manhood,
Nor had time mellow'd Him to this ripeness;
But as for one which hath a long task, 'tis good,
With the sun to begin His business,
He in His age's morning thus began,
By miracles exceeding power of man. 

1. Holy Sonnet 8. If faithful souls be alike glorified
2. Holy Sonnet 12. Why are we by all creatures waited on?
3. Holy Sonnet 5. I am a little world made cunningly
4. Holy Sonnet 9. If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
5. Holy Sonnet 13. What if this present were the world's last night?

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