erotic poet in English literature. I nodded back, leering unconvincingly. I had no idea what she was talking about. "It's his control," she said. "Reading him, you can feel what a good lover he must have been." And here I'd thought my plan to read a Donne poem each night bespoke a lofty, serious turn of mind. Ask not for whom the earth moves.
from The New Yorker: John Donne's Erotica
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