A Nocturnal upon St. Lucys Day Tis the years midnight, and it is the days, Lucys, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The worlds whole sap is sunk; The general balm th hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the beds feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interrd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compard with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruind me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all thats good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Loves limbec, am the grave Of all thats nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here. But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long nights festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the years, and the days deep midnight is. --John Donne 1617
Posted on: Sat, 13 Dec 2014 09:57:54 +0000
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