A Nocturnal Upon S. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day

by John Donne

　　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,

　　Compared 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.