No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
I know, but I did not want to know. Probably I still don’t.
It tolls for me.
Donne was wrongly diagnosed of the plague and lying on what he thought was to be his death-bed, listening drearily to the church bells toll for yet another cloddish man-body succumbing to the black death, when he wrote the above.
What’s my excuse?