Nativity. Poems. John Donne

      Poems

      John Donne

      © John Donne, 2016

      Created with intellectual publishing system Ridero

      John Donne (1572—1631)

      A Burnt Ship

      Out of a fired ship, which by no way

      But drowning could be rescued from the flame,

      Some men leap’d forth, and ever as they came

      Near the foes’ ships, did by their shot decay;

      So all were lost, which in the ship were found,

      They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown’d.

      A Hymn to God the Father

      Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

      Which was my sin, though it were done before?

      Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

      And do run still, though still I do deplore?

      When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

      For I have more.

      Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won

      Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

      Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun

      A year or two, but wallow’d in, a score?

      When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

      For I have more.

      I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

      My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

      But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son

      Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

      And, having done that, thou hast done;

      I fear no more.

      A Lame Begger

      I am unable, yonder beggar cries,

      To stand, or move; if he say true, he lies.

      A Lecture upon the Shadow

      Stand still, and I will read to thee

      A lecture, love, in love’s philosophy.

      These three hours that we have spent,

      Walking here, two shadows went

      Along with us, which we ourselves produc’d.

      But, now the sun is just above our head,

      We do those shadows tread,

      And to brave clearness all things are reduc’d.

      So whilst our infant loves did grow,

      Disguises did, and shadows, flow

      From us, and our cares; but now ’tis not so.

      That love has not attain’d the high’st degree,

      Which is still diligent lest others see.

      Except our loves at this noon stay,

      We shall new shadows make the other way.

      As the first were made to blind

      Others, these which come behind

      Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.

      If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,

      To me thou, falsely, thine,

      And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

      The morning shadows wear away,

      But these grow longer all the day;

      But oh, love’s day is short, if love decay.

      Love is a growing, or full constant light,

      And his first minute, after noon, is night.

      A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s 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.

      A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

      As virtuous men pass mildly away,

      And whisper to their souls to go,

      Whilst some of their sad friends do say

      The breath goes now, and some say, No:

      So let us melt, and make no noise,

      No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;

      «Twere profanation of our joys

      To tell the laity our love.

      Moving