I've been reading John Donne's Holy Sonnet no 7 over and over and can't, for the life of me, figure out what conceit or wit he uses in the poem. He is considered one of the greatest metaphysical poets. Would be very grateful, if someone could help me!
It goes like this:
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom war, dearth (famine), age, agues (fevers), 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 a space;
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 thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.