Awake, and in love

Another love poem this week, The Sunne Rising by John Donne.  I think of this sometimes in the summer, when the sun wakes me at four in the morning; in Dorset, with all creation green and gold at the window, I do not resent it; but in London, with a view of terraced houses and the prospect of a hot Tube journey and a long day at work, it thrills me not.  But Donne had a quite different issue - how dare the sun interrupt his adoration of his paramour?  Indeed, such solar arrogance was futile - Donne can eclipse it with a wink, and fears his love's eyes will have blinded the sun!  And then, he turns astronomy around, and makes his bed and his lover the centre of the universe.  There is something of Donne is last week's poet, e e cummings, seeing the world in small, precious things, and playing with words and meaning with such virtuosity and wit.  I wish you this problem.

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 school-boys 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 to-morrow late tell me,
    Whether both th'Indias of spice and mine
    Be where thou left'st 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 ; compared 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 center is, these walls thy sphere.

Comments

[ted]

Donne is remarkable, thanks for the post!

[glo]

You have already published this poem here:
http://booksdofurnisharoom.typepad.com/books_do_furnish_a_room/2007/11/busy-old-foole.html
It certainly deserves a second (and much more) reading, and its meaning still remains quite a mystery to me. Maybe next time will be the right one.
And before you ask, no, I don't learn by heart all the poems you publish on your blog!

[Mr Cornflower]

There is something unmistakably distilled or compressed about Donne's images; my own favourite is the line

"At the round earth's imagined corners..."

The way he sets up the tension between 'round earth' and 'imagined corners' is exhilarating.