Kitcatt Nohr Digitas

 

Today (Monday 13th) is St Lucie’s day, widely celebrated in Sweden. In the old 'Julian' Calendar,  December 13th was also the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, and a pagan festival of lights in Sweden was turned into St. Lucia's Day.

 

It also inspired John Donne (1572-1631) to write my favourite poem, (though I’m no expert in the world of poetry, I’ll leave that to my esteemed copywriter colleagues at Kitcatt Nohr).

 

Donne wrote it  mourning the death of his beloved, who may have been the countess of Bedford, who was called Lucy and who was the poet’s patron. The death shocked and depressed Donne so terribly that he compares the distress of his heart to the disheartening atmosphere of St. Lucy’s Day. 

 

 

A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY,

BEING THE SHORTEST 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,

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.