It’s fitting that the poems of John Donne, that metaphysical giant of the 17th century, should appear so regularly as New York Sun Poems of the Day. Donne’s range is dazzling, even as he returns again and again to the same question: How, given the stark reality of his own fallenness, to approach God’s perfection? How to enter that stainless presence? Such “Holy Sonnets” as “I Am a Little World Made Cunningly,” which appeared here in March 2022, strive toward an answer to this seeming impossibility.