1'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
2Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
3 The sun is spent, and now his flasks
4 Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
5 The world's whole sap is sunk;
6The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
7Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
8Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
9Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
10Study me then, you who shall lovers be
11At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
12 For I am every dead thing,
13 In whom love wrought new alchemy.
14 For his art did express
15A quintessence even from nothingness,
16From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
17He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
18Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.
19All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
20Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
21 I, by Love's limbeck, am the grave
22 Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
23 Have we two wept, and so
24Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
25To be two Chaoses, when we did show
26Care to aught else; and often absences
27Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
28But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
29Of the first nothing the Elixir grown;
30 Were I a man, that I were one
31 I needs must know; I should prefer,
32 If I were any beast,
33Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
34And love; all, all some properties invest;
35If I an ordinary nothing were,
36As shadow, a light and body must be here.
37But I am none; nor will my Sun renew.
38You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
39 At this time to the Goat is run
40 To fetch new lust, and give it you,
41 Enjoy your summer all;
42Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
43Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
44This hour her Vigil, and her Eve, since this
45Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.
'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 limbeck, 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.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
A Portrait of Donne — Admire a portrait of Donne in his dashing youth.
A Brief Biography — Learn more about Donne's life and work via the Poetry Foundation.
Anne Donne's Epitaph — See the epitaph John Donne composed for his wife, written in his own hand.
The Poem Aloud — Listen to the actor Richard Burton reading the poem.
A Celebration of Donne — Read an article by Donne's recent biographer Katherine Rundell.