St Lucy's Day

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

BY JOHN DONNE

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, 

Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; 

         The sun is spent, and now his flasks 

         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; 

                The world's whole sap is sunk; 

The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, 

Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, 

Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, 

Compar'd 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 ruin'd me, and I am re-begot 

Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. 

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, 

Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; 

         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave 

         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood 

                Have we two wept, and so 

Drown'd 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 night's festival, 

Let me prepare towards her, and let me call 

This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this 

Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

[Note: in John Donne's  Day, the 13th of December fell on the Winter Solstice.]

[from the sublime to the ridiculous, see David Mitchell's article on Donald Trump in today's Guardian.]