National Poetry Month Day 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne

[literarymagpie]

COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ; 
Until I labour, I in labour lie. 
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight, 
Is tired with standing, though he never fight. 
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glittering, 
But a far fairer world encompassing. 
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear, 
That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there. 
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime 
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time. 
Off with that happy busk, which I envy, 
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. 
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals, 
As when from flowery meads th’ hill’s shadow steals. 
Off with your wiry coronet, and show 
The hairy diadems which on you do grow. 
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread 
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed. 
In such white robes heaven’s angels used to be 
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring’st with thee 
A heaven-like Mahomet’s paradise ; and though 
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know 
By this these angels from an evil sprite ; 
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. 
    Licence my roving hands, and let them go 
Before, behind, between, above, below. 
O, my America, my Newfoundland, 
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d, 
My mine of precious stones, my empery ; 
How am I blest in thus discovering thee ! 
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ; 
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be. 
    Full nakedness !  All joys are due to thee ; 
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be 
To taste whole joys.   Gems which you women use 
Are like Atlanta’s ball cast in men’s views ; 
That, when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem, 
His earthly soul might court that, not them. 
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made 
For laymen, are all women thus array’d. 
Themselves are only mystic books, which we 
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal’d.   Then, since that I may know, 
As liberally as to thy midwife show 
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ; 
There is no penance due to innocence : 
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then, 
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

(x)

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne  (via havisham)

havisham: 

#it’s times like this you’re like oh wow you’re really passionate about god!!#really passionate#very passionate#like god is probably not going to be able to take care of that boner you have for him#just maybe find a bearded significant other

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.

The Rising Sun, John Donne

[sssibilance]

Dammit, tinsnip, now I wanna to a John Donne “songfic.”  Poemfic.  Whatever.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free…

Sounds a little Cardassion, eh?  EH? EH?

[tinsnip]

Right? Right? The joy of claiming, of possession, the happy knowledge of that permission already being granted, with a healthy dose of sex is fun!

Ah, Donne~~~ Come sit by me and tell me about God and how nice my bum is~~~

[puckerupdollface]

One of my favorites.

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
“Now his breath goes,” and some say, “No.”

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love
-Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, ‘cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th’ other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

Valediction Forbidding Mourning by John Donne (via awhaleofatrip)