Poems of John Donne

Love's Alchemy

Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.



The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.



A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day, being the shortest day

'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.

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JOHN DONNE was born to a prosperous London ironmonger (also named John Donne), in 1572. The Donne's were Catholic, and young John was educated by Jesuits. His father died when he was young, and he was raised by his mother, Elizabeth.

At the age of 11, John Donne went to Hart Hall at Oxford University, where he studied for 3 years, and then proceeded to Cambridge University for another 3 years. Donne did not take a degree at either university, because as a Catholic he could not take the required Oath of Supremacy at graduation.

After Cambridge, Donne studied law at Lincoln's Inn in London. His faith was badly shaken when his younger brother Henry died in prison, where he had been sent for sheltering a Catholic priest. Donne's first literary work, Satires, was written during this period. This was followed by Songs and Sonnets. a collection of love poems that enjoyed considerable success through private circulation.

Donne gained a comfortable inheiritance, which he proceeded to spend in profligate fashion on "wine, women, and song". He joined the Earl of Essex's raid on Cadiz in 1596, and an expedition to the Azores the following year.

On his return Donne became private secretary toi Sir Thomas Egerton, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. His chances of career advancement were destroyed when he secretly married Anne More, daughter of Sir George More. Anne's enraged father had Donne thrown into Fleet Prison for several weeks, and Egerton dismissed him from his post.

Donne's marriage was a happy one, despite constant financial worries. With typical wry wit, Donne described his life with Anne as "John Donne, Anne Donne, Undone". Finally, in 1609, George More was induced to relent and pay his daughter's dowry. In the meantime Donne worked as a lawyer, and produced Divine Poems (1607).

Donne's final break with his Catholic past came with the publication of Pseudo-Martyr (1610) and Ignatius his Conclave. These works won him the favour of King James, who pressured him to take Anglican orders. Donne reluctantly agreed, and in 1615 he was appointed Royal Chaplain, and the following year he gained the post of Reader in Divinity at Lincoln's Inn. There his fierce wit and learning made Donne one of the popular preachers of his day.

Then in 1617 Anne Donne died in giving birth to the couple's 12th child. Her death affected Donne greatly, though he continued to write, notably Holy Sonnets (1618).

In 1621 Donne was appointed Dean of St. Paul's, a post he held for the remainder of his life. In his final years Donne's poems reflect an obsession with his own death, which came on March 31, 1631.

John Donne is remembered for the wit and poignancy of his poetry, though in his own time he was known as much for his mesmerizing sermons and preaching style.

As an aside, Donne's memorial in St. Paul's Cathedral was the only one to survive the Great Fire that destroyed the old cathedral in 1666. It can be seen today in the new St. Paul's.


Thanks to Patricia Damiano