John Donne's "The Funeral"

I've just been recently introduced to John Donne's poetry, and I'm enjoying it. ^_^ He's actually inspired me to start writing poetry again. But in reading his latest poem, I'm a little stuck. "The Funeral" baffles the heck out of me. I get the theme of love and death, but it's a little confusing with the whole spinal cord thing. Someone please help me. It's killing me that I don't get it. Take a look for yourself. This is it:

The Funeral


WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,
Nor question much,
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm ;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch ;
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do 't ; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came.
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

The Funeral


WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,
Nor question much,
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm ;

(It was the custom to retreive a tuft of hair from the loved one, and treasure it. He means that, in death, he'll want to have that tuft of hair in his hand and begs that it not be touched)

The mystery, the sign, you must not touch ;

For 'tis my outward soul,

(Such a symbol to his love that he deems it to be his 'outward soul')

Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,

(His love is now gone to heaven, and being king or queen to him, the tuft of hair is then viceroy, vice-king, in his or her stead).

Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

(this being the role of a viceroy).


For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do 't ; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came.
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.