Sunday Poem

Donne was a cleric, but he loved. Any man who have loved knows of this: at the break of day you have to leave your spouse and her arms, and go into the world.

A wise woman keeps home as a shelter to which you will return. Donne did love unwisely, then deeply, well, and grieved his wife until his death. So should we.

Break of Day

‘Tis true, ‘tis day, what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because ‘tis light?
Did we lie down because ‘twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that’s the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

John Donne

On a personal note, it is three years since Kea’s father died. He was a staunch Anglican Layman of the old school, and this reminds me that our time will end: and in the depth of this is because we know this is temporary.