"At the round earth's imagined corners"
di John Donne (1572-1631)

At the round earth's imagined corners
blow your trumpets, angels
and arise from death
you numberless infinities of souls
and to your scattered bodies go!
All whom the flood did and fire
shall overthrow
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,
despair, law, chance hath slain;
And you whose eyes shall behold God
And never taste death's woe,
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn apace ,
For, if above all these my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace
When we are there.
Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent, for that's as good
As if Thoud'st sealed my pardon with
Thy blood.