Poetry A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day

It’s the shortest day of the year tomorrow, Friday, 22 December. The Winter Solstice occurs at 03:30am GMT in the northern hemisphere. Always a day of quietness, introspection, solitude.

No better poem for this day that John Donne’s “ A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day”.

Hope you enjoy.



'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.

 

[Eva Ulian]

It’s the shortest day of the year tomorrow, Friday, 22 December. The Winter Solstice occurs at 03:30am GMT in the northern hemisphere. Always a day of quietness, introspection, solitude.

No better poem for this day that John Donne’s “ A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day”.

Hope you enjoy.



'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.

I know it's about his dead love and he has no reason to live on but it's hard to figure out what the wording means. Yet, even without total understanding, I do get that poignant feeling of loss, desperation and gloom - which in itself is quite beautiful.

I feel it depicts the times we are going through today but without the beauty.

 

[Katie-Ellen]

Poor Lucy. And they talk about hell having no fury like a woman scorned.
He knew his astronomy and astrology.

 

[AgentPete]

I was just looking for a reasonable online guide to this poem. As @Katie-Ellen says, there’s quite a lot of astrological / metaphysical imagery in it, which is well worth decoding and understanding, it give you not just insight into the poem itself but a window into the C17th mindset.

Not coming up with terribly good online reference at this point, but you could try this for starters:

https://www.enotes.com/topics/nocturnal-upon-st-lucys-day

One thing to bear in mind is that the general view of thinkers / intellectuals / poets of the day was that time was running out. The world had, maybe, another 25 years or so. Generally pretty eschatological in feeling.

Also, remember that Donne was a pretty erotic poet (at least before his religious epiphany). If you suspect something sexy in the verse… yes, it’s sexy alright

 

[Katie-Ellen]

Scorchio. That rude old Capricorn goat, heh.

Merry Christmas one and all!

 

[Pamela Jo]

I was just looking for a reasonable online guide to this poem. As @Katie-Ellen says, there’s quite a lot of astrological / metaphysical imagery in it, which is well worth decoding and understanding, it give you not just insight into the poem itself but a window into the C17th mindset.

Not coming up with terribly good online reference at this point, but you could try this for starters:

https://www.enotes.com/topics/nocturnal-upon-st-lucys-day

One thing to bear in mind is that the general view of thinkers / intellectuals / poets of the day was that time was running out. The world had, maybe, another 25 years or so. Generally pretty eschatological in feeling.

Also, remember that Donne was a pretty erotic poet (at least before his religious epiphany). If you suspect something sexy in the verse… yes, it’s sexy alright

I just bought Katharine Rundell's Donne book on audio. Talk about your sexy vicars. I wish I had been introduced to him when I was younger. His erotic stuff turns the bump and grind of porn sex into the sublime. No wonder today's young people think there's nothing special about human beings when they know so little about past poets and philosophers.

 

[AgentPete]

Donne also combined rampant sexuality with intense spirituality, almost in a Tantric way.

Someone should explain this to our book-burning/banning fundie friends in the South, I think JD would be much amused to think his work was being seized by police…

 

[E G Logan]

I read the much-praised, prize-winning Katherine Rundell biography of Donne: Super-infinite: The Transformations of John Donne.

Admittedly I was dipping into it intermittently, in the hairdresser's, but I was underwhelmed. Her writing seemed to me of itself too literary for a biography – 'Enough of the metaphors, woman, get on with the Life!' – and by the end of the book I had decided I didn't much care for Donne, the man. Too much of a whingeing, begging, over-the-top flattering sycophant to his aristocratic patrons. Not to mention his 'transformations': he was repeatedly re-positioning his 'brand' long before that was any kind of thing.

I could never fathom exactly what was such a disaster in his marrying his wife either; except for not particularly close connections with Popish tendencies, as a young heiress she seemed suitable enough, and they were undoubtedly lovers. (10 surviving children!) At times Rundell appears to have got so close to her subject that she can't see the need to explain things to other people. (Something an editor should have at least pointed out to her, though perhaps that was a battle lost.)

For anyone who is a real Donne fan, this is a must-read. But it's a hardback and you may not persevere to the end. I would see if you can get it out of the library...

 

[AgentPete]

Thanks for review… I didn’t plan on getting it, in fact your mini-review confirmed me. The Gdn’s view that “she (Rundell) is the ideal person to evangelise him (Donne) for our age” really fills me with foreboding. Making Donne conform to Gdn sensibilities seems to be a hiding to nothing.

I was just happy to come across his poetry many decades ago. It struck me as wild, intense, evocative, intelligent, transgressive, insecure, dangerous. Donne, from little I remember of him, was pretty much the same. Aren’t most poets?

 

[E G Logan]

It struck me as wild, intense, evocative, intelligent, transgressive, insecure, dangerous.

It's all of that.
But Rundell includes a LOT of stuff he wrote that didn't make it into the anthologies, even admitting herself (and she is a real fan, or evangelist) that some of it comes in the 'I read this so you don't have to' category.
And the begging letters to the patrons, poetry included sometimes!

 

[AgentPete]

And the begging letters to the patrons, poetry included sometimes!

Plus ça change...

 

[Pamela Jo]

Plus ça change...

Yeah. How many of us would want our query letters preserved for posterity.

 

[KateESal]

Ah, I teach this poem!
It is probably the most downbeat of the Donne poems on our syllabus, and yet there is a glimmer of hope, or at least some kind of philosophical acceptance in the final lines.

His beloved daughter Lucy, as well as his patron, who was also called Lucy, had both recently passed away when he wrote this and Donne's grief is palpable.

I could never fathom exactly what was such a disaster in his marrying his wife either; except for not particularly close connections with Popish tendencies, as a young heiress she seemed suitable enough, and they were undoubtedly lovers. (10 surviving children!)

The problem was that John Donne and Ann More eloped, which was a BIG deal in those days.
Essentially, Donne had committed theft, as women were legally the property of their fathers - to be disposed of as the head of the family saw fit - until they married, at which point, they became the property of their husbands. So, by marrying Ann without first obtaining her father's permission, Donne had broken the law, as well as a deeply held social and religious convention.
To make matters worse, Ann was the niece of Lady Egerton, and Donne happened to be in the employ of Sir Thomas Egerton at the time, so this was seen as a serious betrayal of his patron's trust.
As a young man, Donne could be rather rash and impetuous - especially when it came to matters of the heart - and this almost broke him.