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.

John Donne

The Placid Pug - Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas

    The placid Pug that paces in the Park,

                Harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead,

Lives his dull life, and recks not of the Shark

In distant waters. Lapped in sloth and greed,

He fails in strenuous life to make a mark,

The placid Pug that paces in the park.

Round the slow circle of his nights and days

His life revolves in calm monotony.

Not unsusceptible to casual praise,

And mildly moved by the approach of "tea,"

No forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays

Round the slow circle of his nights and days.

He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes,

To mark the mood of animals or men.

His joy is limited to mild surmise

When a new biscuit swims into his ken.

And when athwart his gaze a Rabbit flies,

He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.

And all the while the Shark in Southern seas

Pursues the paths of his pulsating quest,

Though the thermometer at fierce degrees

Might well admonish him to take a rest,

The Pug at home snores in ignoble ease.

(And all the while the Shark in Southern seas!)

If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea

And forced to swim long miles to find their food,

Tutored to front the Hake's hostility,

And beard the Lobster in his dangerous mood,

Would not their lives more sane, more useful be,

If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea?

The placid Pug still paces in the park,

Untouched by thoughts of all that might have been.

Undreaming that he might have "steered his bark"

Through many a stirring sight and stormy scene.

But being born a Pug and not a Shark

The placid Pug still paces in the park.